Acts of Contrition
by Madrigal
Summary: This is a completed, novella length fic. Follow Erik and Christine on their paths through Europe and through the years after their last goodbye as they learn the sometimespainful truth that they were never meant to be apart.
1. Paris

**A/N: **This novel-length fic is based upon a rather dark interpretation/ combination of ALW, Kay and Leroux. Be warned - I am no Raoul-lover, and you will find him characterized unsympathetically. But you will also find Christine and Erik as you know them: she selfish and naive, he passionate and wounded - but not exactly ready to lie down and die after her departure. No, not quite yet. 

**Disclaimer:** This fic contains a few of my own characters, most prominently the de Jardin family (chapter 2 and onward). My epigram belongs to Tori Amos (this is not a sonfic, though). Nadir Khan and his valet Darius belong to Susan Kay. Erik has been pulled from so many sources that I figure he must be mine by now. And Christine - well, I don't like her much, so I'll just let Erik have her. 

**Rating:** PG for occasional language, angst and adultery. 

**Setting: **Begins three years after Christine's "choice" in the cellars of the Opera. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

**Acts of Contrition**  
a Phantom of the Opera fan fiction   
by Heather Sullivan 

_"I guess you've heard he's gone to L.A. -   
He says that behind my eyes I'm hiding,   
and he tells me I pushed him away   
and my heart's been hard to find. _

Well I ran from him in all kinds of ways -   
guess it was his turn this time."   
Tori Amos, "Baker Baker" 

**Chapter 1: Paris**

Christine jumped in her sleep and cried out, a sob of terror that ripped through Raoul's own peaceful slumber like a dull blade. Her dreams often frightened her, and though he had grown accustomed to gathering her into his arms and comforting her back to sleep, he had never been able to become used to that sound. It was as frightful as it was frightened, almost inhuman. He often asked her what her dreams were, but she could never answer him; she claimed she could remember only a feeling of intense terror. His offers of a hypnotist she bravely declined, but recently her neglect of this problem had begun to grate on his nerves. Raoul was sure, though he was careful never to mention it, that these nightmares were the vestiges of horrors she had experienced at the hands of that fiend at the Opera. Christine would never answer his questions about that either, but her eyes would fill with tears and he was convinced she still harbored dreadful memories. Why she would not submit herself to a doctor's care to rid herself of them was beyond his understanding and, lately, his patience. 

He touched her shoulder and she tensed; leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. "It's all right, Christine. You've been dreaming again." He pressed a kiss to her temple, perhaps more for her comfort than his pleasure. He loved her, of course. But being woken in the middle of the night made him cross; and though the whole affair at the Opera was three years in their past, the dreams seemed to be increasing in frequency and severity. 

Without opening her eyes, his wife sighed; once his arms were around her, her body began to relax. Smoothing back the voluminous hair that always managed to spill into his face, he took a calming breath and murmured, "I'm here, darling. You're safe." 

She, still half-asleep, cuddled closer into him. "Erik," she whispered, the corners of her mouth curling into a drowsy smile. 

It was the Vicomte's turn to go tense, and after a moment of shocked powerlessness he regained himself and shook her. "Christine, wake up," he insisted, perhaps a little too firmly. Her eyes snapped open to reveal an expression of fear. 

She sat bolt upright. "What's the matter?" she worried, clutching her nightgown closed at the neck. He had woken her in the middle of the night before, and this reaction had become almost a reflex. 

He sat up too, and seethed through clenched teeth, "Who is Erik?" 

Her eyes went wide with shock. "What?" was the only dumbfounded reply she could muster. 

"You heard me," he replied, his tone becoming steadily more menacing. "Who is he?" 

"Raoul, honestly," she sighed, reclining against the bed's cushioned headboard and smoothing the sheets back over her lap. "If you don't know who Erik is by now, it's yourself you should be upset with, not me." 

He lunged at her and, taking her by the upper arms, gave her another shake. "Why you..." He pushed her from him roughly, and she gasped as her shoulder crashed against the headboard. "I can't _think_ of anything vile enough to call you ..." he spluttered, burying his head in his hands. "You evil, wicked woman!" 

He was frightening her. "Raoul, for heaven's sake, what's the matter?" Her fingers were clutching mechanically at her nightgown sleeves, and her voice trembled. 

"What's the _matter_?" he raged, and for a moment she feared he might finally strike her. He had done nearly all but strike her in the past twelve months. "I can't _believe_ you, Christine!" He raked his hands through his hair, making it stick up crazily at all angles. "You've taken a _lover _and you ask me what's the _matter_?!" 

"Raoul, what _are_ you talking about?" she cried, latching her fingers to his shoulders. "Erik was never my lover - Raoul, don't you _remember_?" He stared at her, his eyes enraged and empty. He did not remember. "Don't you listen at _all_, Raoul? Erik is ... Erik _was_ ..." Her voice trailed off and she dropped her hands and her gaze into her lap. "The Phantom of the Opera," she finally whispered. 

A silence. After a few moments Christine raised her eyes again, expecting to find Raoul looking apologetic; but his expression was unchanged. "God in Heaven, Raoul," she cried, beginning to get cross herself. "What on earth is this all about?" 

"You said his name just now," he replied, managing to keep his voice low and steady only for one sentence. In a moment he was shouting, "I was holding you, _in our bed_, comforting you after one of your nightmares, and you said _that creature's name_ instead of mine!" 

A pause, in which Christine hardly dared to blink. Raoul shook his head and muttered, half to himself, "I'd forgotten the beast even _had _a name." 

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she finally whispered, hoping against hope that his tirade had passed. In the three years of their marriage, she had learned that Raoul's temper could be just as bad as Erik's - if not worse when Raoul had had too much brandy. 

The look he shot her was as cold as ice. "I was asleep," she stammered. "I didn't know what I was saying ..." 

"You were saying what was in your mind," he growled, and his face contorted until he hardly looked human. "You've been thinking of him - when else, Christine? When else besides when I embrace you?" 

She shook her head, confused. He grabbed her chin and forced it closer to his. "You lied to me, Christine," he said softly in a tone steeped with only-thinly-veiled violence. "You told me that you didn't love him, that you only kissed him to save me and that _I_ was your choice. But you lied, didn't you?" He gave her chin a jerk. "You would have let him send me away, and stayed with him ..." Her eyes had filled with tears of confusion and fear, but seeing them only served to make him mysteriously angrier. He brought his fingers swiftly against her cheek - not a sharp blow, but enough to startle. "Wouldn't you have, Christine? To fornicate in that cellar - that's what you wanted, isn't it?" 

She was trembling, embarrassed and angry that he had struck her, frightened that if she said something wrong he might not be so gentle a second time... "No, Raoul," she pleaded; the words tasted sour, like a gorge in her throat. "I wanted you ..." 

"Well, I don't want _you,_ Christine." He threw her from him and she tumbled into an artless pile on the bed. Rising, he ripped the coverlet from over her and tossed it to the floor. "I don't want a wife who has never been faithful to me in her heart." A pillow joined the blanket on the carpet, and he grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her from under the sheets. Her foot lighted on the pillow and she stumbled; he jerked her roughly upright and said, "Come on then! Take these things and go sleep in the guest room - far better than you deserve! Let _him_ comfort you after your nightmares - I'm sure he lurks in the shadows yet, stalking us!" He cast a wild glance about the room. 

"Raoul, please ..." Her tone was abject. 

He set his jaw. "No, there's nothing left to say." 

"But Raoul, it was just a word in my sleep!" 

"Christine," he threatened, his hand raised again. "Tomorrow you will remove your ungrateful, unfaithful person from this house ... and I will go see my lawyer, yes, about a divorce!" He urged her, far from gently, from the room. "I can't believe the time I've wasted trying to make you forget him - and you were dreaming of him all the while. You really are nothing but a gutter-snipe chorus girl. Get out of my sight!" 

* 

The next morning, as promised, Christine the Vicomtesse de Chagny was unceremoniously ejected from her home. As she tried to muster what dignity she still possessed, she realized she would not retain that title long. Her version of events would not be solicited in the drawing up of papers, and with all the money and social influence he had at his disposal Raoul could make up whatever lies he wished. She hated this "man's world" and she hated Raoul especially; so she could not understand the tears that spotted the smart veil of her hat as she struggled to the curb, hampered by her trunks, to hail a cab. 

Luckily, she had a bit of the money with which Raoul routinely showered her; the train to Paris was well within her means. So was the wire she sent to Meg Giry care of the Opera; she hoped her sweet little friend would be able to help her, despite the irregularity of their correspondence. Her last letter from Meg had been months ago, but Christine had not been able to answer it. This had happened before, unfortunately, and Meg must have been cross for she did not write again. Still, Christine remained as fond of the younger girl as she had always been, and hoped she would forgive Christine's faults as a letter-writer upon their reunion. It would be comforting, she thought as she leaned her head against the train seat's cushioned back, to be with Meg again. A few moments later she was asleep, lulled into shallow slumber by the motion of the coach. 

She had tossed and turned until daybreak following the row with Raoul; though she had bolted the spare bedroom door behind her she was still unable to sleep easily. This argument, though hopefully the last, was far from the first; Christine's three years with Raoul had not exactly been a picture of wedded bliss. Of course they had been happy at first, playing at their game of fairy-tale marriage; but fairy tales always leave off just before reality begins. Raoul remained attentive in company, the model of an ideal husband, and always rendered Christine the object of socialite jealousy; but behind closed doors he soon became something of a tyrant, gradually taking more and more control over Christine's life. She was soon to learn that this despotic behavior was not uncommon among aristocrats. Just months after her own honeymoon tour she had had a hushed and horrible conversation with the nervous wife of one of Raoul's acquaintances, who confided that her husband was not adverse to punishing her with his dress cane if she failed to heed his word. "But of course," the younger woman had whispered tearfully, stirring her tea with vigor, "I _do_ provoke him most shamefully. He takes such care of me and I can be so ungrateful ..." 

Raoul had never struck Christine before last night, but he was not above fits of temper which had spelled doom for various drinking glasses and ceramic lamps in their home. At first these tirades were only an extreme and rare occurrence, but as time passed they became more frequent. And as his temper worsened, so tightened his control on his wife. He bought a new house in the south of France and moved them from Paris without so much as consulting her first. He discouraged her correspondence with Meg and would often hand her friend's letters to her already opened and read. He had even begun to choose Christine's clothes and instruct her maid in the dressing of her hair; once he had ripped her bodice in a tussle that resulted from her choice of a dress he did not like. "I won't have my wife seen in public looking like a common trollop!" he shouted, almost shoving her back into her closet to change. Her requests to be permitted to sing at church met with the same response; eventually she had stopped asking. 

So although she felt weary upon stepping off the train at Gare d'Est, Christine was not terribly sorry to be on her own. The indignity of Raoul's slap still tingled on her cheek, and she was angry to think what a possession she had become; but remembering that young aristocratic wife, she wondered whether she was not in luck to have escaped so unscathed. Her heart was almost light as she checked her trunks and set off towards the Opera. 

Upon reaching it, however, her hopes came crashing down again. The concierge returned the telegram to her apologetically. "Mademoiselle Giry has not been here for some time, Madame," said the older man, whom thankfully Christine had never seen before. 

"Can you tell me where she's gone?" Christine inquired, straining to keep desperation out of her voice. Abandoned by her only friend in Paris ... 

"I'm afraid I don't know," he replied; "she left to be married, to a man of considerable fortune I might add." 

Christine, all too knowledgeable in that respect, silently mourned her little friend's fate. "And her mother?" 

"Gone with her. If you are indeed acquainted with them, Madame," he offered, "perhaps you would like an interview with the managers, Messrs. Firmin and Andre. They could tell you more than I; I began work here only shortly before Mademoiselle Giry took her leave." 

Christine shook her head - surely that would never do, to allow those two to see her in her humiliation. "No, I thank you - I don't wish to disturb them today ... I shall write them inquiring after my friend." 

The concierge bowed briefly. "Madame." He turned to go, and his tailcoat resounded in her head like the pealing of the bells of Notre Dame. 

"Oh, Monsieur, I beg your pardon ..." The words came tumbling out so quickly, she barely knew what she was saying. "But one more question - a matter of ... pure curiosity." 

"Yes, Madame?" He raised his abundant eyebrows. 

"There was a legend ... a rumor of sorts ... about, well, an Opera ghost." She shocked herself, but her mind raced to justify the enquiry. She had no other acquaintances in Paris ... 

"Yes, Madame, I have heard the stories - but they are nothing but nonsense, of course." 

"Really? He was rather active several years ago - surely you are familiar with the chandelier?" 

He bristled. "May I ask who you are, Madame?" 

She lowered her eyes and cast for a lie to tell. "Forgive me, Monsieur, I was ... a patroness of the Opera years ago, along with my late husband. I was only curious if the Ghost has been up to any more mischief, since I left Paris shortly after the incident with the chandelier." 

He regarded her for a moment, but finally seemed to accept her story. "I have seen nothing since my employment here, Madame; misplaced shoes or toppled scenery are often blamed on a 'Ghost,' but these are common occurrences and Opera folk are very superstitious." 

"Yes, of course," she answered lightly, not wanting to arouse any more suspicion. She dipped a shallow curtsey. "I thank you for your time, Monsieur." Turning, she made as leisurely and inconspicuous an exit as she was capable. 

Minutes later, she was standing before the door on the Rue Scribe fingering the key she had found in the bottom of an old jewelry case in assembling her luggage. Thinking it might be to one of her trunks, she had slipped it absently into her cloak pocket; now she remembered what it in fact opened. 

As she stood facing the door with her heard in her throat, she admitted to herself that she _had_ thought of Erik since that night in his home beyond the lake. She had concealed her occasional fond remembrances from Raoul, knowing they would make him angry; it became clear almost immediately that her husband could understand or tolerate her thinking of her former teacher no more than he could stand her maintaining the skills Erik had imparted. She had tried to put him from her mind; but as Raoul became crueler she found it more and more difficult to keep Erik from creeping into the edges of her consciousness, reminding her that his anger had been quick to rise but quick to dissipate, and that his touch was always gentle and never uninvited. 

She had pushed these thoughts aside as best she could, for Raoul's increasing roughness had given her more than enough to occupy her mind. She did not know what had prompted her to murmur Erik's name in Raoul's arms last night, but she suspected it had something to do with her recurring dream: she had been sitting at her dressing table combing out her hair when their butler brought a letter to her on a silver tray. The black-edged paper and bold handwriting that emblazoned her name across the envelope were familiar, but as she reached for it Raoul burst through the door, his dress cane in hand and a look of madness crackling in his eyes. Each time she dreamed and woke to Raoul trying to calm her, she lay tense in his arms, sometimes for hours, before being able to sleep again. When he asked her about the dreams, she thought it best to reply that she could remember nothing of them. His recent insistence that she see a doctor about the dreams alarmed her, for she knew there would be no helping a confession of her true fears under hypnosis. And for the news to escape that the Vicomte de Chagny terrorized his wife would surely have had worse consequences than last evening's slip. 

She had not come to Paris to see Erik - the thought of seeking his help, oddly, had not occurred to her until the concierge had given her his shoulder in the grand foyer. Now she felt nervous and yet relieved; their reunion would be awkward, of course, but she did not doubt he would help her. Perhaps he would put her up, allow her to sleep in her lovely boat-shaped bed. 

And perhaps he might tell her again that he loved her, offer her the protection of his dark embrace ... 

She shook her head - surely she was getting ahead of herself. But he _would_ help her, give her money at the very least. She fitted the key into the old rusty lock, but it would not turn. Leaning her shoulder against the door to exert her whole strength on the key, she was surprised when the door gave way. It had not been locked after all. 

"How strange," she murmured as she slipped through the doorway - and almost repeated it when she found the interior space brightly lit by a torch on the wall. Light had no place in Erik's dominion ... but taking it down, she picked her way around the lakeshore towards Erik's house. 

The hinges remained in the rock face, but his front door was no longer there; it was as if it had been ripped away by violence. Shuddering, she put aside the thought of the angry mob descending into the cellars after the murder of Piangi ... She thrust the torch through the opening and peered in, seeking the familiar rich carpets and furnishings. 

Blackness and nothing more. 

"Erik?" she called, stepping gingerly across the threshold. The torch illuminated the foyer of Erik's home, now nothing more than an empty cavern. She cast a puzzled glance about, then pressed onward through the next door. 

Room after room echoed back her voice from its bare walls; nothing of Erik's house seemed to remain. By the time she reached the hidden door to her own chamber, distracted tears were slipping down her face and she was mouthing, "He will be there ... hiding from intruders, safe in my room ... he will be there ..." 

She touched the spring and the door swung wide, revealing the glow of burnished wood beyond. She rushed into the room and beheld it exactly as she remembered, her old things surrounding her like an attic of memories; but she sank to her knees on the dusty carpet in the very throes of disbelief. The impossible had occurred ... 

Erik was not there. 


	2. New Employments

**Chapter 2: New Employments **

In the not-so-distant city of London, evening shadows concealed the face of a man seated in a deserted café opposite Westminster. He had set out to sketch the façade of the building by the light of the street lamps, but buttresses and arches soon gave way to the frill of a gown cuff, detailed curls framing a delicate brow ... 

Erik closed the sketchbook gently, as if to avoid injuring all the copies of Christine's face that it contained. He had been abroad for over two years now, making use of his collected wealth to see the world he had so long denied himself. His road had let to places too numerous to mention across Europe and eastward, the attention his mask attracted seeming to make no impression on him. All that mattered now was the day-to-day pleasures he found in new places where no one had ever heard of the Phantom of the Opera. Nadir had helped him liquidate his belongings; Erik often wrote his friend letters in his loneliness, but had not yet been brave enough to return to Paris and call at the modest flat on the Rue de Rivoli. It was all still too fresh. 

He fanned one graceful hand across the sketchbook's leather cover. "I _will_ forget her," he whispered, trying to sound certain if only for his own sake. 

* 

Monsieur de Jardin nodded approvingly as he read the CV that Christine had fabricated. It was not too ambitious, for she was still young and wished to appear as believable as possible. According to the document, she had nursed her ailing sister and her two children until the unfortunate's death; in the three years which followed, she had served as a governess in a noble household. Christine's false resume was bolstered by a letter of reference which she had signed herself as "The Vicomtesse de Chagny." The letter had been penned by another hand, however: that of a friar who had strayed from God's path and now made his living providing well-paying customers with forged documents. She had paid a pretty penny, as well as a portion of her principles, for the letter. It too was modest, praising in simple language Anna Daaé's skills as a nursemaid and elementary tutor. Christine had thus been forced to take on her mother's Christian name and invent two de Chagny children in the hopes of gaining employment. 

Monsieur de Jardin was a wealthy businessman whose wife loved their young daughter but could not quite bring herself to raise the child. She much preferred the teeming social life of Paris; Christine tried not to wince as she tittered, "Daaé! Daaé! That was the name of that Opera singer - do you remember, Gerome?" 

"I'm afraid I don't, dear," he replied in a flat tone that indicated Monsieur de Jardin rarely gave his wife his full attention. 

Despite her husband's apparent non-interest, Madame de Jardin continued, "Christine Daaé, the name was. She was at the center of some scandal a few years ago ... made a great splash one evening and then disappeared completely. It was really quite shocking." The look with which she fixed Christine was prying and greedy. "I don't suppose she's any relation of yours?" 

Christine cast her glance downward depreciatingly and wished she had chosen a fictitious surname as well. "No, Madame, I don't believe so." 

The older woman flapped her fan, obviously disappointed. "A shame," she pouted; "I should have liked to hear how the whole thing turned out." 

Monsieur de Jardin cleared his throat and mercifully changed the subject. "Madame le Vicomtesse seems to have thought very highly of you, Mademoiselle Daaé. May I ask why you chose to leave her employ?" 

She was prepared for this question and had rehearsed its answer. "Monsieur le Vicomte's business required the family move to America," she replied modestly; "and though I did travel with them when they toured Europe, I did not feel prepared to move so far away." 

"Understandable," he nodded, finding Mademoiselle Daaé more genteel and becoming by the moment. "Obviously you know of our requirements from the advertisement; so suppose you tell us what you are seeking in a position?" 

Again, Christine had a scripted reply ready. "I would ask for a small stipend in addition to my board - perhaps fifty francs a week - and Sundays to attend mass and have time to myself. Otherwise, I am amenable." 

"Very good," he replied, placing the papers down on the coffee table. He had already decided to hire Mademoiselle Daaé, but recalled at the last moment that his wife might like to be consulted. "My dear, have you any questions for Mademoiselle?" 

She screwed her face up thoughtfully. "Can you sew?" she asked finally. 

It was not what Christine had expected; relieved, she answered, "Yes, Madame, I embroider and knit quite well." 

"And mend?" Christine nodded. "Oh, good," Madame sighed, relieved herself. "I get so very _tired_ of forever mending Estelle's things." 

Monsieur de Jardin was silent a moment to be sure his wife had nothing else - perhaps something _more important_ - to ask; but she gave him a small nod to indicate she was through and approved. Rising, he extended his hand to the young lady he was already calling "Anna" in his mind. "Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, we should be delighted to have you." 

Christine rose too and shook his hand with a small bow of her head. "Thank you Monsieur ... Madame," another nod to his wife. She tried to maintain an outer composure and not betray her true feelings of mingled disgust and relief. A job as a governess was quite a fall from being the wife of a nobleman, and already she did not care for Madame de Jardin; but work was work, and she needed it. She was given leave to bring her things at once, and so after sending to the railway station for her trunks, she returned to the Opera for the remaining dresses and personal items from her bedchamber. Even a cheap hotel, which is all she could have afforded, might have drained her finances long before she found employment; and so she had been staying amongst Erik's empty caves. As much as her injured pride allowed, she still wished he would return; but she was glad nevertheless to leave the basements. Without his presence to make her brave and secure, she felt rather nervous and alone in the cellars. 

What fears Christine had harbored about her new position were dispelled the following morning upon meeting her charge, the seven-year-old Estelle. A bespectacled, pensive child, Christine liked her ad once and could tell she would make an apt and intelligent pupil. "Perhaps why the mother doesn't like the child near her," Christine mused wryly as further acquaintance proved Madame de Jardin a foolish and petty woman. Christine allowed the little girl to call her "Mam'selle Anna," realizing the good it would do her in helping to remember her new identity; but though she permitted the little chambermaid to call her the same, she comfortably remained "Mademoiselle Daaé" to the formidable housekeeper and to her new employers. 

* 

Meanwhile, in Florence, Erik stood on a scaffolding like a great bird clutching a branch in a high breeze. His cloak fanned out like wings around him and something in that motion brought a vague smile to play at the corners of his ruined mouth. "The Master of all I see," he murmured to himself, and was pleased when the words gave him a tiny but perceptible thrill. He reached out and laid his palms against the rough wall of the building; it was nothing special, a great hulking mass of rotted wood and crumbling stone, but Erik felt a sympathy for the ugly structure that no other builder in the world could claim. Naturally his bid had come in lowest, and so he had contracted to restore the aged building to its former beauty: an act of mercy that he found a wry pleasure in. His own face was irreparable, but _this_ at least was well within his ability. 

Erik was glad of the project; it was nothing much, certainly no challenge for his skills as a contractor, but he had consciously chosen a small job for his first in Italy. He had no name here, and as was to be expected his eccentric appearance and the standards he imposed upon his crew often raised eyebrows. Had it not been for the letter of recommendation, he might not have succeeded in winning even this job ... 

Carefully, almost lovingly, Erik had forged the testimonial from Giovanni which outlined his skills as a mason, architect, and overseer of workmen. That great builder was many years in his grave now, but among those who knew the science of stone and mortar his name was far from forgotten. A few of the older ones even remembered the whispered mention of a strange young man, an apprentice who hid his face behind a mask, who was believed to be Giovanni's natural son. Erik's re-emergence all these years later was a point of questioning, but the letter gained him an immediate attraction. Curiosity drew men to his employ; good pay and hard but gratifying work kept them. 

Unrolling his plans for the job, Erik flattened them against the wall of the building and once again went over the figures. Silently, he also congratulated himself; his designs, though simple, were masterful and pleasing to the eye. It would be time-consuming work, but he had promised the building's owner a work of art; and time he had, in abundance. Only as he relaxed into sleep that night in the small bare room he had rented near the work site, did he allow himself to acknowledge the good of keeping his hands busy. As if the money and the reputation he would earn were only secondary concerns, he sighed in relief: it would help in not thinking of Christine. 

* 

Estelle de Jardin crossed her little legs at the ankles because her feet did not yet reach the floor. She was rather a comical sight perched atop the piano stool, her grave little face framed by two thick brown braids. Scrunching her nose to adjust her glasses, she began the little tune again; but just as on the several previous attempts, something in the fifth phrase sounded dissonant and wrong. She heaved a sigh that was substantial for her eight-year-old frame, and Mademoiselle Anna came floating to her side like an angel. The error was perhaps a bit exaggerated; Estelle had noticed that her teacher was distant today, lingering absently at the window instead of sewing or reading in the chair beside the piano, occasionally reminding her to keep her fingers curved. 

"Estelle, _cherie_, what's the matter?" 

"I shall _never_ get past this phrase, Mam'selle Anna - I cannot get it right no matter how hard I try!" 

"You dear little goose, you've marked it incorrectly. See, here?" The governess seated herself on the piano stool, which her pupil had vacated for her. She indicated the phrase Estelle was muddling over, where she had pencilled in the names of the pitches above each note. "This is the wrong pitch," she said, rubbing out the offending mark and replacing it with the correct one. "Do you see, Estelle? It ought to sound like this ..." And Mademoiselle Anna opened her soft white throat and sang the phrase correctly. Estelle smiled, for she loved to hear her governess sing - and today she was especially glad to hear it, since her pretty teacher had seemed melancholy of late. When she finished the phrase, governess smiled at pupil, who was hovering at her elbow. "Do you see now, dear?" 

"Oh, yes ... Mam'selle Anna?" she breathed, her eyes wide inside their glass prisons. 

"Yes, Estelle?" 

"Sometimes I think you aren't a governess after all, but a fairy princess come to look after me," the child said gravely. 

Christine forced down a laugh at her quaint little charge, and asked just as seriously, "What makes you think that?" 

"Because you're so pretty and good," she replied. 

Smiling, Christine gave up her seat to Estelle and placed her hand on the little girl's head. In the year that she had lived with the de Jardins, Estelle had wrapped herself so tightly around Christine's broken heart that sometimes she felt moved to tears by the child's affections. 

"But you're so sad so often, Mam'selle," Estelle said suddenly, watching the pensive expression that was crossing her governess' face. 

Christine smiled a little and bent close to the child as if in confidence. "Perhaps I am missing fairy-land," she whispered. 

"And the fairy prince who's waiting there for you?" Estelle whispered back. 

Erik darted through Christine's mind in one violent moment of sadness. She drew in a breath and straightened. "I don't believe there is one, Estelle. But besides, I'd much rather stay here with you." 

Estelle jumped off the piano stool and threw her arms around her governess' waist, fretful that she had caused the look of sorrow in Mademoiselle Anna's eyes. "Will you sing a duet with me, Mam'selle?" 

"Of course, dear," Christine replied, and brought out the fat volume of simple songs Estelle had already mastered. The wise little girl chose one that made Christine smile to herself: a little air from a Shakespeare play. "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more -   
Men were deceivers ever;   
One foot in sea and one on shore,   
To one thing constant never.   
Then sigh not so, but let them go,   
And be you blithe and bonny,   
Converting all your sounds of woe   
Into hey, nonny, nonny!"When the song was over, Estelle struck the last chord and clapped exuberantly. "Oh, Mam'selle - you sing _so_ beautifully!" 

"Thank you, dear. And you shall play wonderfully one day, if you continue to practice your exercises." 

"Oh," Estelle sighed heavily, "but I do _hate _my exercises." 

"Now Estelle, you know that if you don't practice, you shall always play like a dreadful elephant." Christine fumbled her fingers across a few piano keys to set the child laughing. And as Estelle giggled, Christine was reminded of herself as a child and of the stories her papa had told her. "And," she whispered very low, which made Estelle listen to her very closely, "if you are very good and remember to do your scales every day, perhaps someday the Angel of Music will visit you and teach you to play more beautifully than anyone else on earth!" 

"Oh, Mam'selle!" Estelle cried, clapping her fat little hands together. "_You_ must have been taught to sing by the Angel of Music!" 

Christine suddenly realized what a mistake she had made. If she were to forget Erik and the hole he had left in her life when he vacated his underground house, she ought not to tell Estelle stories about the Angel of Music. "Yes," she finally answered, feeling suddenly hollow. "But that was a long time ago." 

"Mam'selle Anna?" The little girl's forehead creased in concern. "Why are you so sad?" 

She smoothed Estelle's hair with her palm. "I am not sad, dear. The Angel's voice was just so beautiful, it made me feel like crying." 

Estelle hugged Christine about the waist again. "I hope I will hear Him someday." 

"Perhaps you will, but you must keep practicing. Remember to keep your fingers curved." Christine's voice was absent again, and she returned to the window to watch raindrops slip down the pane. It was a dreary day in Paris and the gloom had made her melancholy. _I have been thinking of Erik_, she admitted silently to herself. That alone could be the reason she had been so quick to tell Estelle stories about the Angel of Music. In fact that could be the only reason Estelle fancied her a sad fairy princess pining for her absent prince, or the only reason for anything anymore. Oddly enough, Christine rarely thought of Raoul - and when she did, it was with distaste. Erik alone filled her thoughts these days, and she felt torn between the new, tender feelings she struggled to define and the pain he had caused her by his disappearance. The de Jardins' music room curtains were a rich scarlet and, leaning her cheek against them, she thought of the velvet and deep mahogany of the old sitting-room in the house beneath the Opera. She closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik," she whispered under Estelle's playing; "how _could_ you go away and leave me when I needed someone so badly?" 

Almost as if in response to her question, three sharp taps sounded on the music room door and Monsieur de Jardin entered. "Hello, my sweet," he greeted Estelle, who hurried to him in a flurry of petticoats and braids. "Have I got a present for you anywhere about me?" 

"Oh, Papa, a present? Where, where?" 

"I can't _quite_ remember," he joked, tugging lovingly on one of her braids. "That's where I need your help." 

Giggling, Estelle tried to feel all his pockets while he playfully danced away from her, complaining that she was tickling him. Finally his coat pocket relinquished its treasure, a bright orange fresh from the street market, and a bit of lovely ribbon. Estelle exclaimed with pleasure, kissed her papa's cheek impetuously, and ran to Christine to have the new ribbon put into her hair. As she undid Estelle's thick braids and combed through the long waves with her fingers, Christine was suddenly aware of something she had noticed from time to time since her installment here: Monsieur de Jardin was watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. The first time Christine had felt his gaze on her, she been afraid she had displeased him in some way; but as she noticed it again and again, she began to realize that it was a look of anything but disapproval. This made her even more anxious, however, than disapproval might have; fearing that she understood him all too well, she learned to break these moments by looking him straight in the face. His expression always neutralized when her eyes met his, and she was thankful for it. 

She looked at him now as she tied off half of Estelle's hair into one long pigtail, allowing the ends of the ribbon to flow down her back along with the rest of her chestnut waves. "There now," she said, laying her hands on the child's shoulders; "_now_ who is the fairy princess?" Estelle beamed and ran to examine herself in a mirror, leaving Christine rather awkwardly alone in the room with the father. 

He cleared his throat and came a few steps closer to her. "I have a gift for you, too, Mademoiselle, if you would permit me." 

"Oh, Monsieur, please - you are too good ..." But the little serving-maid, Agatha, had entered the room with a hatbox in hand. Monsieur de Jardin took it from her and laid it atop the piano, whereupon Agatha withdrew. 

He smiled at Christine, almost shyly. "Please, open it," he said with an inviting wave of his hand. 

Unable to resist the temptation, Christine lifted the lid of the box and drew from its tissued interior a lovely hat of cream-colored fabric with a delicate silk band. "Oh, Monsieur, it's charming ..." 

"Just right for travelling, or so the milliner told me." When she looked at him questioningly, his expression was sheepish. "I'm sorry to bribe you like this, but I felt I could not ask you what I'm about to ask you without first presenting some kind of appeasement." 

"Monsieur?" she asked, her forehead creasing. 

"Mademoiselle Daaé, you have been with us for over a year now, and please allow me to tell you how pleased my wife and I are that you have come into our home. Estelle adores you and we could not imagine a pleasanter young lady than yourself." 

"Thank you, sir," Christine replied cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

"I know I must be worrying you," he smiled, "but rest assured there is nothing wrong. I simply came to ask you a favor - a rather great one, as you might guess from the gift." 

She breathed a small sigh of relief and allowed him a faint smile in return. "How may I be of help, sir?" 

"By accompanying us on a tour of Europe," he replied hurriedly. "You have done this before, I believe, with your previous employers; but I ask with such hesitation because this is to be a rather extended tour ... two years, perhaps, or slightly longer. Madame de Jardin has been restless lately and I want to restore her spirits with a nice long holiday." 

Christine nodded; a whisper among the servants rumored that Mme. de Jardin had lost a baby earlier in the year. Agatha maintained that it had been following a row regarding a perfumed letter Madame had found in Monsieur's coat pocket, but many of the staff pooh-poohed the little maid's theory. 

"I know it is asking a great deal, Mademoiselle," he was continuing, "but we would like very much for you to accompany us. We do not wish to send Estelle away to school when she is so happy with you - and the trip would be wonderful for her, I am sure." He hurried on, as if he anticipated and wished to prevent her refusal. "We would make all the travel arrangements, of course, and provide you with whatever trunks and travelling clothes you might require. And," he seemed to be running out of breath, "a raise of ten francs per week would be yours if you wished it." 

Christine was smiling broadly now, and she held up her hands. "Please, Monsieur de Jardin, breathe before you do yourself a harm. I think I should be very glad to accept your invitation - it is very kind of you." 

"Are you certain?" he asked, surprised. "After all, it will be quite a long time ..." 

She nodded. "It _is_ a long time, sir, but to be perfectly honest I have nothing to hold me in Paris. I will think about it and give you my definite answer in a few days; but I believe that answer will be 'yes.'" 

Monsieur de Jardin beamed and clasped her hand, looking for a moment very like Estelle. "Thank you, Mademoiselle - thank you very much." Then, as if to prevent her changing her mind, he hurried from the room. 

She returned to the window and gazed out, this time a small smile lightening her features. "A long trip could be the very thing," she whispered to herself, leaving 'to help me forget Erik' unspoken. 

* 

Erik mopped his forehead and moved the lantern to a greater distance; but in a moment, he realized the faint light would never do from far away. Muttering an oath, he moved the lantern near again, only to find it to blame for the sweat rolling into his eyes. Finally he threw down his chisel and moved away from the frieze he was carving, frustrated and in need of a cool drink. 

The frieze was to be fixed to the façade tomorrow, and when that was done his restoration of the building would be complete. These last refinements he was making to the delicately carved stone would surely cement his fame; already his work was garnering notice from the populace. He had even been approached, very tentatively, by rich _signors_ looking to have homes built. 

He was glad to have gained a name of his own right, since hiding behind Giovanni's had been inexpressibly painful for him. Especially when he worked on fine details which required the removal of his mask for comfort's sake, his thoughts would heedlessly wander back to the days of his apprenticeship; his deft fingers would create things of heartbreaking beauty from the most mundane stone as if in tribute to the loss of the purest affection he had ever possessed. And yet, he made certain he came to do this work alone and under cover of darkness: recalling Luciana, he could bear to let no member of his crew see his face. Stare as they might at his mask, they respected him - or at least, the high wages he paid them. But he would be unable to hire any man, at any price, should he frighten just one with his unconcealed ugliness. 

_Luciana _... in a way, she had helped him almost as much as she had hurt him. He had mourned her piteously as a youth just on the verge of manhood, and the guilt he felt for her tragic end had never entirely left him. He could not yet walk through the street markets of Florence without selecting some delicate bloom to lay on the tiny grave he had sought out upon his arrival in the city. But he no longer blamed himself for her obsessive desire to see what lay behind his mask; she had been a selfish, willful child, and her determination to have her own way was her own flaw. This thinking, in turn, had helped him in the construction of his still-fragile life without Christine. He had come to accept that people are like blocks of stone, each with its own particular imperfection, and that Christine's leaving had been no fault of his but rather something in _her_ that he could never have changed. It made it easier to think this way, to unshoulder the blame onto his absent angel. And without the weight of guilt, it became in turn easier for Erik to be angry with her. He told himself this was healthy - she had treated him wrongly. Yes, time had passed ... but he was new to this, this thinking like another person. He was proud of his progress. 

Removing his cloak and jacket, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and returned to his work. By the time dawn pinkened the sky, sweat plastered what little hair he had to what little scalp he could boast, but the frieze was complete even to his own exacting standards. _And what now?_, he found himself musing. _Of course a cool bath and a fresh suit, but after that - after the building was finished - what then?_ Slipping the mask back over his ruined face, he started back to his small rented room. _Or perhaps ... where next?_ Perhaps indeed - another change of scenery? Did he really _want_ to settle down and build houses for tentative _signors_? No, it could wait ... and becoming scarce for a while might just increase his value. Thoughts of Vienna flooded his mind as he strode through the lightening streets. The symphony there was said to be exceptional. 

* 

"Mam'selle - hurry!" Estelle giggled and ran after a fat and impatient-looking sheep, who spent all his days being petted by children in Coram's Fields in London and had become abruptly bored with Estelle when he realized she had no food for him. Christine lagged behind as her charge pursued the wooly creature and found herself unable to suppress a small smile at the sight of it waddling away across the park with Estelle's braids in hot pursuit. 

She had brought Estelle here every morning this week; although her ninth birthday had passed she did not feel too old for the petting zoo and so Christine could not begrudge her it - especially since they would leave London tomorrow. Madame de Jardin had enjoyed "The Season" in this great city but now complained of being depressed by the constantly damp weather. Christine had to admit she felt rather dismal herself - but Monsieur de Jardin had cleared away everyone's storm clouds. 

"What do we think of Italy?" he had said. 

* 

Erik did not lean out his window in the moonshine, as so many music-lovers do in Venice, to drink in the song of the gondoliers; but he did leave his balcony doors open to allow both moonlight and music to spill into his modest apartment. Sometimes when a particularly prideful boatman would pole by, he would smile and, standing out of sight behind the curtains, sing a soft harmony to whatever tune the young man was belting out. The look of surprise that crossed his face was nothing compared to the speed and silence in which he would row away after Erik had employed his ventriloquist's art to throw a whispered remark about humility into the straining ear. _Harmless amusement, that, _he would tell himself, musing good-naturedly about what a gondolier he himself might have made. He chuckled as he composed a resume in his mind: _years of experience poling and singing on subterranean waters._

The Viennese symphony had not impressed him terribly, and he wished he knew someone among its management so he could have amused himself with a few notes. But since he did not, he had concluded his holiday there and done a bit more travelling: Berlin, Brussels and Prague had entertained him briefly, but in the end Italy had called him home. After reappearing in Florence to test the endurance of his popularity, he had been satisfied with it enough to move base to Venice. There he spent much of his days in the lovely flat he had rented, drawing up plans for the several jobs he was overseeing, and his evenings strolling along the canals, ducking into churches to sample their choirs or just observing other ramblers from a streetside café. He felt an especial affection for the young lovers who held their trysts in the shadowy streets, although he often observed their fleeting embraces through a veil of his own bittersweet feelings. 

Tonight, however, there was something in the air that caught Erik's attention. A particular perfume: acrid, tickling the nose almost like the scent of tears. The gypsy in him went on guard - _something is going to happen. _"Rubbish," he murmured to himself, picking up his violin in the moonlight. "I control what happens to me now." 


	3. Reunions

**Chapter 3: Reunions **

On her second Sunday in Venice, Christine went to mass with a small basket over her arm. The day was sunny but cool, and she thought she might take the opportunity to explore the street markets. 

Oddly enough, the fresh morning drew Erik out as well; upon discovering that his supply of tea was in a sad state, he donned his hat and cloak to see what remedy the open-air market might offer. He enjoyed to mingle with the crowds there - the noise of all those people, the chickens brought in for sale and the street performers - the smells of many local dishes rising from their stalls and meshing in the air - it excited him. Never mind the attention his mask attracted - none of that mattered now. 

Christine emerged from mass and, removing her lace fichu, joined the crowd of matrons who shared her idea of finishing their mornings at the market. She strolled slowly amidst the bustling crowd, letting their swirling energy dizzy her senses. Making use of her halting Italian, she soon began to fill her basket with fresh pomegranates, pastries and trinkets from the various stalls. She was following the scent of baking bread when something else attracted her attention. 

Before her by several yards, a tall man in a dark cloak stood out against the mostly homespun crowd. Christine could barely overlook the coincidence and, for a moment, allowed herself to entertain the notion that this form belonged to Erik. 

From the shadow of a hidden alleyway, a small boy, perhaps six years old, jumped up and began to lag just behind the cloaked gentleman. Far back as she was, the child's plaintive tone drifted into Christine's hearing: though she could not make out words, it was clear the child was begging. 

When the gentleman turned to drop a few coins into the urchin's outstretched palm, it was not his generosity that made her catch her breath. It was the brief glimpse of his white cheek - _the flash of Erik's mask_. Her basket and its contents went rolling unheeded into the gutter as she hurried towards him. 

"_Prego - signore ..._" she panted once she was within his earshot. 

Without turning, he answered in only faintly accented Italian, "I am not a wealthy man, child, and I have given all I can today." His footsteps continued to fall solidly on the cobblestones. 

"I am not begging for your money, monsieur," Christine answered, slipping into French. She was scurrying after him, taking two steps to each of his; she gulped a huge breath in order to steady her voice. "... But rather for your recognition, and your hand in friendship." 

That voice ... he would know it anywhere. _But how _...? 

Almost too quickly for Christine to react, he whirled to face her. She managed to sidestep and avoid crashing into him, for he had gone from breakneck speed to stock-still in only a moment. Now he stood staring down at her with eyes that softened for a moment. Her name, unspoken by him for so long, formed unbidden on his lips. But the curtain of surprise parted and his new and nebulous anger took the stage; he bit back his tender whisper and his eyes hardened again. 

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he murmured, teeth clenched. 

"Erik," she gasped, even more surprised by his chilly greeting. "Why ... such formality?" 

Although his posture seemed easy, he was anxious, uncomfortable and torn standing in the street with her. After the tumult he had been through he hardly knew how to react as she stood, mere inches from him, looking up into his face. Words came bleeding over his tongue: snippets of conversations he had imagined in the silence of his misery. But nothing could have prepared him for this moment, and now every beat of his heart pumped his veins full of the rushing urge to flee. 

"I meant only respect," he finally replied, his eyes squinting faintly. "After all, our last parting ..." He was stumbling over words when a nearby church bell began to chime. "But pray, excuse me," he concluded, grateful that its tone had broken the awkward moment. Tugging his hat brim, he turned away. 

She, however, stood rooted in her place, watching in disbelief as he gave her his shoulder. A wave of dismay washed over her and unearthed a thought she had tried to bury: _perhaps he truly no longer cares for me!_ For now she saw how very possible this was, the memory of his empty subterranean house in Paris meshing with the hardness of his voice. She nearly choked on the hysteria that rose in her throat and, in a frantic moment, she clamped her small hand on his upper arm. It was fine and muscled, too big for her fingers to span; and the contact crackled like electricity in her mind. 

He tipped his chin to look at her without turning back. His expression was angry, hurt, frightened and pleading all at once. She pulled her hand back quickly, embarrassed at the boldness of her gesture and not knowing quite what to say. "Please, Erik," she ventured tentatively. "I have ... missed you." 

A hissing sound of indrawn breath, as if he were in pain. But his shoulders tipped, and he made a gesture that invited her to follow him. 

"Come - we will find somewhere to talk ..." 

* 

As she walked alongside him through the bustling streets, his mind was teeming with conflicting thoughts. Part of him wanted to wait until she turned her face away - just for a moment, her gaze caught by some bauble in one of the market stalls - so he could vanish as he was so capable of doing. He could just slip away from her - it would be so easy. But as he watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye, he realized he was not really waiting for her to glance away. He was engraving her on his memory and trying vainly to contain his heart, which was melting despite all his efforts to stop it. He wanted more than anything to remain aloof and numb to her; he wanted to prove how angry he was and yet how seldom he thought of her. But tracing the line of her sweet cheek with his eye, he knew what a liar he was. He had been lying to himself in repeating that the part of his heart that loved her was gone, neatly amputated and bricked off with his own secret recipe for uncrumbleable mortar. This was a lie, for there was no _single_ part of him that loved her: it was in every fiber of his being and even spilled into the air that surrounded him. He could sense it now, a pool of love swirling around him and reaching out its invisible arms towards her. Implementing all the strength of will he commanded, he reigned himself tightly: this would never do, to melt soundlessly back into her power. He was angry with her: for leaving him, and now for returning and shattering the flimsy illusion that he no longer cared for her. Why had she come? He knew she had married the Vicomte - he should forget his feelings and send her packing back to him. 

Having bolstered his resolve, he was anxious to have done with this awkward meeting. He knew that he would have to remain closed to her, and he knew that that would pain him more than anything. But he must not surrender; he had done so five years ago and the rubble was not yet cleared away. Spotting an open-air café nearby, he chose a table near the street and swept a chair back for her to take. 

As they had walked, Christine could hear nothing but the pounding of her own heart in the silence. She could not understand Erik's stony manner. Each time she heard him take a breath she waited for him to throw off this distant act and tell her how glad he was to see her; but he did not. Even as he pulled back a chair for her in the quaint café, his nod to her was wordless. _Ridiculous - what would they do, sit across the wrought-iron table and stare at each other?_ She thrilled, though, at this last gesture of civility, a welcome hint that he might warm to her ... 

As he pushed her chair in, he was careful not to touch her. 

* 

Although Erik had learned to converse among company fairly easily in his above-ground years, as he sat across from Christine he felt his strength wavering. He remained silent and tried to order his thoughts instead of rashly attempting to speak, and it was not until after their coffee had arrived that he was able to begin. 

"So ... what brings you to Venice?" The words felt idiotic and meaningless in his mouth. Of course he wanted to know the answer, but - such banality! _This will never, never do_, he scolded himself - _I must be eloquent, artful ... and unyielding._

She was relieved that he had spoken, for she did not know how to start. She had hitherto been sitting opposite him, peeping carefully at him over her cooling coffee, and simply taking in the feeling of his company. So strange, so familiar and comforting, the muted lines of the mask. _Yes_, she thought, _I needed only to see him to know my answer: I ought to love him. And now that I've found him again, I can begin ..._

But his question was direct, and she fumbled for an answer. "I ... my ... my life has changed so much in these few years, Erik." 

"Has it." He modulated himself very carefully but inwardly was frantic to know why she was here, and more importantly _who she was with. _In the months following their last goodbye he had watched over her from a distance, attempted to soothe the pain of her loss by becoming once again her silent and invisible guardian. But soon he left off doing so; he knew he was only being foolish, torturing himself by hoping secretly that she might grow bored with the Vicomte and return to him. Besides, the publication of the marriage-banns had effected him more deeply than he had expected. 

Since the pages of Le Figaro had imparted their cruel but inevitable news, he had tried to steel his heart to Christine's memory and let her pass from him as water from a garment hung in the sun. Yet despite the years and all his changes of venue, Erik knew he still loved her - but now his love was laced with anger and strangled by the scars of abandonment. He tried to prepare himself now for whatever further pain her story might cause, and wondered whether he could continue to hold up his indifferent façade. 

She dipped her chin and paused a moment before speaking. She had known the time for explanations would soon arrive, but she had hoped it could have been delayed a little, perhaps until after he had whispered the first words of love into her ear. But his behavior was not what she had expected, and no excuse was available, so she began: "My ... marriage has dissolved." She paused but he did not speak, and she felt compelled to press onward. "I suppose I should not have hoped it would last - after all, Raoul is not the charming prince he seems and I am no longer the girl he knew." Another pause, and she sipped the strong coffee to give herself time to think. Why was he so silent? Perhaps if she broached Raoul's roughness he would soften ... "He was rather cruel to me towards the end," she whispered, allowing tears to well in the hopes of stirring his sympathy - for surely he must still love her, angry though he might be! "He made me suffer and I foolishly bore it until finally he turned me out of our home. He said he intended to seek a divorce, and I must admit I am not sorry about it. And that was two years ago." 

For once he was glad of the mask; its aid in concealing his emotions was invaluable. She did not see the look of surprise that took possession of his face for a moment, nor the expression of mingled satisfaction and guilt that followed. Of course he had hoped that the marriage would not last, and though he hated the Vicomte with a black passion he had also hoped that Christine would be the one abandoned. In the darkest moments of his own grief he had raged for her to feel his loss, his humiliation, his crippling loneliness - a taste of her own cruelty was more than deserved, he thought. And now that he heard it had all happened according to his wish - the part of him that still smarted from her leaving wanted to cavort like a hellish imp. But the greater part, which was so brave in her absence but in her presence could not deny that he still loved, was aflame with wanting to throttle the Vicomte for whatever wrongs she had suffered at this hands, and with gnawing guilt that he had wished hurt on her. 

He realized that she was watching him, awaiting some response. But how to respond: which side of his warring soul should be the victor? What to reveal in this first meeting, five years after she had left him and he had nearly died of a broken heart? 

The image of himself mourning her in a cellar while she went to bed with the Vicomte supplied the answer. Coolly, he made no reply to her tale of woe and instead prompted, "And you come to Venice ...?" 

"With the family who employs me," she answered, slightly put out that he offered no expression of sympathy. The pains she had endured - and he, of all people, she would have expected to extend consolation. "I have been forced to hire myself as a governess." _That_ indignity would surely excite some compassion. 

"I was unaware you had any talent for teaching." _Other than on the subject of misery_, he continued inwardly; his anger, having won the battle, was now bleeding into his reason. He ought to have curbed it, but it somehow made it easier for him to continue this ridiculous conversation. 

She was unnerved by the benign nature of his reply. "I learn as I go," she managed, and brightened as she described Estelle. "My charge is a dear little thing. She has become the joy of my life, actually - she learns quickly, laughs often and never causes me any trouble." 

"How fortunate for you ... a most convenient post." 

There was no mistaking it now - his voice was flat and unyielding as a marble slab, and she knew not whether to be angry or to weep. Either he had not forgiven her for leaving with Raoul, or - oh, horror! - he had allowed love to sour into hate during their long separation. _No_, she protested inwardly, _that cannot be! _Erik was a passionate man with a deep soul, and hurt though he might he could never hate anyone he had once loved. She was indignant that he was punishing her now, but she would warm him; time was all she needed, she assured herself, to rekindle his affection. _Perhaps_, she thought, _I even owe it to him ... my leaving and marrying Raoul must have wounded him deeply._

"And you, Erik?" She rendered her voice light, trying not to betray her discouragement. "What have you been doing with yourself these last few years?" 

He fairly glared at her - here he was, straining with his feelings, and she was as flip and offhand as if she were at a garden party! Was this the woman he had loved so deeply that he had forgiven her the forceful removal of his mask? Yes, she was - she whose childish curiosity rivaled Luciana's in its selfishness, and whose likewise childish arrogance was perfectly certain he still loved her. What else could explain her persistence despite his chilly manner? She thought him simply _pouting_ and indulged him, waiting for his front to drop and for him to bury his face in her skirts, professing undying love. He bristled - the grain of truth there goaded him. 

"I have been travelling mostly, although recently I have settled here to do some contracting. But do tell me," he said, his tone growing harsher as he allowed his injury to speak for him, "how you ever managed to find a job of your own accord? I cannot imagine the Vicomte was good enough to help you replace him as your source of income." 

It was her turn to bristle - there was no ignoring the deliberateness of his insult. "Necessity makes even the weakest able to fend for themselves," she retorted. "And with your having gone from Paris, what else was I to do?" 

"_My having gone from Paris_," he echoed swiftly, his voice dropping. "You knew, then?" 

His change in tone effected her, and she cast her gaze downward. "Yes." 

"Since ..." The softness of his whisper encouraged her reply. 

"Since nearly the moment Raoul turned me out," she said, hope of reconciliation creeping into her tone. "I returned to Paris thinking ..." But she caught his eyes, whose expression was hardening just as it had in the first moments he had beheld her. She squared her shoulders, taking this as a sign of more impending unpleasantness. "I went to the Opera, actually." 

Whatever tenderness he had felt when she confessed the had tried to find him perished at the mention of the Vicomte. "Looking for employment?" His voice was gentle, but once again deliberately insulting. 

"Looking for _you_," she spat out miserably, close to tears and unable to wave off his dig. She sought but failed to justify such intentional unkindness. 

"Really." He felt cruel, but entitled. 

She was trembling under his seemingly indifferent gaze. "Yes," she finally snapped, her indignity getting the better of her. "But you weren't there - you were as distant and unconcerned for me as you are now. And ..." She caught herself, immediately sorry for her words. But there was no retracting them; and she peered at him nervously, expecting one of his old outbursts. 

But he was leaning easily against his chair, watching her carefully. "And?" he prompted, his long graceful fingers stirring mock-encouraging circles in the air. "Did you feel betrayed and disappointed that I had not remained in my tomb, the ever-constant corpse?" She bent her head but, inexorably, he spoke on. "You thought I ought to have been content wasting away in that cellar, waiting - _forever waiting, Christine _- for you to change your mind?" His hands completed their arc and came to rest in a steeple, fingers tip to tip against his lips. He felt calm and in control now, impartially dispensing structured sentences. He had planned that remark long ago, composed it as carefully as a phrase of music, in one of his imagined conversations with her; but he had never expected to actually have use of it. In those imaginations, which always seemed like fantastic unrealities, he was superior and indifferent and left her weeping in the realization that she had lost him out of her own self-centeredness. But the tears that spilled now were not the ones he'd anticipated: they were angry tears, falling from eyes that bored directly into his. 

"How can you, Erik?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and ragged on the edges. "How _can_ you speak to me this way when five years have passed and all I am is glad to see you?" 

Abruptly and without ceremony, he rose from his chair. "Perhaps I am changed," he replied, dropping an amount of money excessive for two cups of coffee onto the table; "and rather dismayed at finding _you_ are not." The wrought-iron chair scraped against the cobblestones as he shoved it in roughly. Stalking away, he took no notice of the pigeons he displaced with the stirring of his cloak. Christine turned sulkily from the image of him crossing the plaza, and by the time she too rose from the table he had disappeared from sight too quickly for her to note in which direction he had gone. 

* 

A few days passed in which Christine's face was iron. Even Estelle's little misadventures could not bring a smile to her face, although the darling little girl nearly wore herself out trying to please her governess. Where each evening she had been accustomed to sitting in the parlour with the family, Christine now took to her room; she would sit in her dressing gown with her hair around her shoulders until late at night, brooding. Madame de Jardin, as usual, paid no attention to anything "the governess" did; she never took notice of 'Anna Daaé' unless she was looking uncommonly pretty, and even then hardly spoke a word to her. Monsieur de Jardin, however, was keenly aware of the change in 'dear Anna' and strained to hide both his notice and his sympathy. After over a year of travel, and of closer proximity to the lovely young au pair than he had ever been afforded in Paris, he was finding his burgeoning affection for her harder and harder to conceal. _A kiss might cheer her_, he found himself musing; ..._no, no, I must not think of it!_

Finally Christine managed to break her melancholy among her employers; she became aware that her moodiness was upsetting Estelle and so deliberately lightened her heart for the child's sake. But each evening in the sanctuary of her room, she trod the floorboards in consternation. "What does he mean, I have not changed?" she whispered, wringing her hands absently. "Surely he must see that I have ... and what does he mean by making cruel remarks on purpose, and turning his back on me?" She wanted to seek him out, to force down his wall of coldness; but she wanted to punish him, too, to make him simmer in the possibility that he had driven her away forever. For three weeks she stubbornly remained angry; but in the end, her resolve crumbed into tears. "Perhaps he too will have softened by now," she murmured to herself one evening after dinner, as she donned her cloak to go in search of him. 

Not knowing where to find him, she was forced to do a bit of detective work; but she did not find it difficult, having all the necessary tools for garnering information from young Italian students of architecture. Going to a churchyard where she had often seen a few young men sketching, she arranged herself on a low wall, drew back her hood and waited. Surely enough, a confident fellow soon tucked his sketchbook under his arm and grinned his way over to her. 

"Good evening, lovely lady," he purred. 

She batted her eyelashes, dipped her chin and replied, "Good evening, _signor._" 

Pleased at her encouraging response, he spoke again. "What brings you here at this time of day, _bella_? It is late for mass." 

She repressed a smile - his every word was oily with self-assurance. "I am a pious daughter of the Church," she murmured. "But I see you too love it, just in a different way ..." She indicated his sketchbook and he nodded, enthusiastic to discuss his favorite subject: himself. 

"Oh, yes - I am a student of architecture, you see; and - " 

"_Are_ you?" she interrupted, clapping her palms together coyly. "Then perhaps you can help me. I am looking for an architect to build me a house ..." 

The young man's attempted suave was nearly laughable. "_I_ should build you a castle in the clouds, _bella._" 

"Oh," Christine fluttered falsely; "no, please, you misunderstand. I have heard of a great architect recently coming here to Venice - a rather strange but fantastic genius. But perhaps you do not know of him?" 

"Mmph," the boy huffed, "of course I know - it could only be _Erik_." 

She started at the ease of her quest, and was intrigued by the weight given his name by this young man. "Is he that famous, then?" 

"Famous? More _infamous_, I should say. His designs are perfect in every way - I have studied his structures, you see - and the money of Venice clamors for his service, but he keeps aloof and selective. His materials, his crew - even his patrons are subjected to the most peculiar standards! Would you believe that he has been here less than a year and has already turned down dozens of offers from some of the richest men in Italy?" 

"Is he _that_ particular about his work?" she pressed him, interested to find Erik as exacting a master architect as he was a maestro. 

"Fanatical, if you ask my opinion - pure arrogance!" The young man seemed to be prodded onward by some personal vendetta; his words were laced with sarcasm. "He would rather reject commissions than waste his time or talent on someone he thinks unworthy. And as for apprentices - ha! He will have _none _of that!" 

Her young suitor's bitter pronunciation of these last words finally gave Christine to understand his meaning. How lucky to have attracted such an informant! Placing a calming hand on his elbow, she leaned in close to him and whispered, "Can you tell me where to find this _Erik_?" 

Shocked back to reality by the beauty's touch, he stammered, "He is currently engaged in a project on the northern fringe of the city ..." Catching himself, he smoothed his demeanor and placed his own hand atop hers. "But you waste your time, _bella_ - you are better off with a builder who will not reject you." 

He raised her fingers as if to kiss them, but nimbly she slipped out of his hold. "Oh, I am not afraid of that. He is only a man, after all - surely he can be persuaded!" Feeling sliightly guilty for having used the young man so meanly, she rewarded him with her most dazzling smile. "I thank you, _signor_." Then, turning on her heel, she hurried away. 

So drunk was the young man on her charming smile, it was some moments until he realized his own stupidity. But when the reality of her escape struck him, he nearly put back his head to howl. Damn him - _damn_ Erik for dismissing his application for apprenticeship, for the perfection of his designs and for that lovely's interest. God only knew what the mask concealed, but with that devil's luck he was probably divinely handsome beneath it. Cursing Erik for all the miseries of his young life, the boy returned to his boarding-house to sulk; he could sketch no more tonight. 

* 

Dusk was falling, and Christine had a way to go until she reached the site of Erik's current project. She hailed several carriages before finding a driver who knew both the place she meant, and how to reach it from the dock where her gondolier had left her. By the time the hired rig had dropped her at the roadside near the construction site, the moon had risen high enough to give pale light to her path. Lifting her skirt gingerly, she picked her way towards the beginnings of a building she could make out several hundred yards off the road. She did not know why she was so sure she would find him here at this hour, but as she neared the structure she could almost feel his presence crackling like electricity in the air. Finally she caught sight of him, her glance attracted by the sound of his voice. 

He stood on a rough, half-completed wall, thrown in silhouette against the moon and his cloak fluttering like wings around him in the evening breeze. His voice, raised softly in wordless song, swirled down like a waterfall and flooded the empty maw at the center of the fragmentary building. This was how Christine remembered him, and she nearly wept to once again be in the company of the Erik she knew. The arms of his music wound around her as they always had - at last he embraced her as she wished he would, without anger, indignation or judgement. She found herself stretching out her mind in response to his voice, the old pattern repeating itself as if only moments, not years, had passed. She was climbing the scaffolding and reaching towards him almost without thinking, and unbidden by her her voice ventured timidly forth to mingle with his in a song of pain but hope for reconciliation. 

He was understandably startled. He had come to the site after dark purposely for its solitude - he often worked through the night when he felt agitated, and only raised his voice in song when he thought himself utterly alone. The singing soothed him, helping him to forget the guilt and pain and aching vestiges of love that had tormented him since his meeting with Christine. As much as he had felt victorious sailing away from her on his wave of bitterness, in the empty weeks that ensued he had repented every angry syllable that had escaped his lips. _It is best this way_, he told himself, but the ache beneath his sternum could not be brought to understand that. He wanted to weep, but found his tears long dry - the years of grief had parched him and left only music to quench his pain's thirst. Now, his façade dropped in what he thought was solitude, he was powerless to rebuff her as she appeared suddenly at his side, reaching out with tears in her beautiful eyes and brushing his arm. 

"Christine," he whispered, his anger drowning silently beneath the waves of love that washed over him. 

"Erik," she answered, flooded with relief to hear his gentle tone once again. She had meant to say something lofty and meaningful, but all she could manage was a sob-strangled, "Please ..." 

He surrendered control in that moment, and she fell into the arms he opened for her. The weight of her small body against his both knifed his heart and made it beat feverishly - he had so longed to hold her, but now that he did the costs bore heavily upon him. Would it all begin anew, the same old cycle of love and rejection, now that he had given up his fragile destiny into the once-so-careless hands of this darling mademoiselle? 

Her words cemented his greatest fear. "Oh, Erik," she sighed from the circle of his arms. "_Mon Ange ..._" 

His fingers were closing around her upper arms; he pulled her, gently but inexorably, away from him. "No," was his reply. 

Stubbornly, she refused to acknowledge his rejection and tried to press herself back into his embrace; but his grip was unyielding. "Erik - " her voice was pouty, like a child's - "why won't you hold me?" 

"I said no." His tone was even and resolute. 

She stopped struggling and stared up at him, baffled. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean I have no intention of letting you fall into me as if nothing has happened." Short, clipped words - unrehearsed. He might have been proud of himself - but he was no longer fighting his battle with any kind of dedication. It was all too steeped in misery. "_Too much_ has happened, Christine." 

Her lip trembled. "Don't you love me, Erik?" 

He let go of her, sighed, brought a hand to the good side of his forehead. Her simple language cut him to the quick, as it always had. "That is not the point." 

"Yes, it is," she insisted, taking a step closer to him. "It _is_ the point, because I know this anger you are punishing me with is not what you truly feel." He shook his head and moved as if to turn his back to her, but she was too agitated to allow it. Grabbing his coat sleeve, she pulled him back to face her. "And I _can_ love you, Erik." He winced, tried to pull away. She gripped his sleeve tighter. "I've come to know it so very keenly since I've been apart from you. And I could have shown you then - I chose you - and you sent me away. This separation was not _my_ fault." 

His eyes shot open and he wrenched the cloth of his coat from between her fingers. "It is _mine_ then, I suppose?" She took a breath and opened her mouth as if to protest, but he silenced her with a gesture. "No, don't bother," he retorted bitterly. "I see your point. I ought to have believed that you _could learn to love me_, instead of trusting what I saw with my own eyes. I should have kept you with me instead of letting you go with him who you obviously preferred!" 

"Raoul was the wrong choice ..." she contradicted petulantly, stomping her foot. 

He caught her chin in his hand, a loaded motion. "But you went with him." She blinked indignantly but said nothing. "You went with him - _and that isn't all! _You left Paris with him - _you married him and lived with him as man and wife for three years!_ You can tell me I sent you away - perhaps I released you a bit too ... firmly. But you cannot tell me I forced you to make these choices - I did _not._ If I could have made you do anything it would have been to love _me_. I deserved that. I _did not_ deserve to see you embrace the Vicomte before my very eyes, or to imagine you with him ... after your marriage." His voice had turned to acid; as if he had burned himself, he jerked his hand away and turned as if to go. 

She too was growing frantic - frustration and embarrassment at his rejection stirred petty words in her throat. "You _wanted _me, Erik - when you imagined us, did you burn with jealousy? Would you not have given the world to be the one beside me? _You would have - _and you still would, even now!" 

He whirled on her, his look dangerous. "You are a selfish girl, Christine. You had my heart once but threw it to the gutter - and now you would have back again, to shatter once more into a thousand pieces." 

"But you can't deny that you still want me!" she cried, eyes wide and cheeks flushed at her own audacity, knowing somewhere inside that her words were shameless and cruel. 

He looked into her face and saw all the beauty that still captivated him - and beneath it all of Luciana's willfulness, that childish blend of goading and love that had almost drawn him into the grave with her. He averted his eyes distastefully as he fully realized the mistake he had repeated in loving Christine - and yet he could not purge it from his soul, cut off the offending limb as the Bible so neatly instructs. "Not like this," he finally managed to choke out. "Not like the second violin in the absence of a better player. Not because the Vicomte has hurt you and left you alone, and not because I am ever your plaything to do with as you choose." 

As suddenly as her anger had reared, the argument was over; she could no longer keep up her blustering front. "I don't understand, Erik ..." She came close to him again, placed her hand on his elbow. "How would you have it?" 

His look was pained, and that pain was visible even around the mask. "I would have you make a decision, just once, with someone else's feelings at heart. Think of _me_, Christine." He faltered. "Think of how I watched you go - think of all the years I spent trying to put you from my mind - and think of me now, watching you cry because I finally refuse to be trifled with. Think of that - and perhaps you'll see how I would have it." 

She dipped her chin in shame as his words opened a window for her: she _had_ expected him to gladly fill the spot that Raoul had so willingly vacated. But when she raised her head to tell him she was sorry for her arrogance, he was gone. 

* 

As she stumbled back to the apartments the de Jardins had rented in Venice, Christine distracted her mind by comparing herself to Christ on His way to Calvary. Her awful moment of realization had not surrendered her unscarred. The shock of Erik's sudden departure, of his leaving her stranded to make her own way home in a strange city, had returned her thoughts to the moment; but the dreadful remnants of his words still hung in the air around her, poisoned every breath she drew and crept into every thought she entertained. She felt like a criminal, hating herself for her crimes, hating her accuser for sending her to the gallows. 

She arrived at the de Jardin residence at an hour most indecent for a single woman of her age. Thankfully the gossiping little chamber-maid, Agatha, had not been brought along, for Christine knew she would never have been able to slip in unnoticed had it been for that little chit. 

As it was, Monsieur de Jardin did hear her entrance, and peering around his bedroom door saw her drift like a sad spirit into her own room. He had known that she stayed up nights, pacing the floors of her chamber; he knew that she was often sleepless. But he had never known her to roam the out-of-doors. His mind clamored jealously to know what passion so occupied her heart as to torment her so violently. _It has been worst since our arrival here_, he reasoned. _Tomorrow I shall make arrangements ..._ He had not cared much for the romance of Venice, since being unable to share it with the true object of his desire frustrated him; he resolved that they would leave it within the week. Then, cursing the fate that bound him to a frivolous and unloving bride, he returned to bed beside his wife. 

* 

The news that she would soon be leaving Venice drove Christine to further distraction. Convinced that one last conversation might mend the ruins of their friendship, she wracked her brain for some way to meet with Erik again. In the end, she could contrive nothing greater than to write him a tearful note, begging him to come and speak with her in the atrium of the de Jardin's rented home at a time when she knew the family would be absent. She did not budge from her street-ward window until the messenger returned from his construction site with a reply in hand. 

He had toyed with the idea of rejecting her invitation, but the messenger's insistence coupled with the haste and fervor evident in Christine's handwriting gave Erik to know that her wish to see him was strong. There was no reason to go ... he felt empty inside, devoid of any hopes for any subsequent meetings with the child. But the thought of doing to her as she had done to him, of abandoning her when she seemed to be reaching out to him so desperately, was too cruel to feel truly just. As he donned his hat to depart for this strange appointment, he was a harp just moments after being played furiously: every string, every fiber of him was trembling with the violence of his recent emotions, and he had no idea what - if any - control he had over the pitches that would escape him in her presence. Each footstep on the pavement brought some new conviction. _I shall forgive her - her reasons do not matter, it's enough that she wants me! No, I shall be angry - lovely as she is, I am not a secoond violin._

In the end he felt nothing: she kept him waiting in the arbor, and when she finally entered his back greeted her. As he whirled to look on her he expected the emptiness in him to flood with some emotion; he thought his heart would decide his course of action. But it told him nothing, and he felt nothing, and the words he spoke were resignation colored to the best of his ability by his signature dry sarcasm. 

"Christine, I must say I am surprised at your tenacity. To what do I owe the pleasure of your insistence?" 

She glanced downward, but her eyes would not well with tears; they were parched from days upon days of weeping. "Erik, please. In a few days I shall leave Venice." 

"Is that why you've had me come: for 'Au Revoir'? How _kind _of you, child. I wish you a safe journey." There was an insidious turn to his voice, and it stung both his throat and Christine's ears. 

She seated herself on one of the low stone benches that populated the atrium. Staring up at him incredulously, she replied, "Is this how you want us to part, then?" 

He drew a breath - she sounded like a martyr, and it was insufferable. "I haven't your talent for touching farewells." 

"And you won't ask me to stay." Misery and disbelief made her words heavy. 

He did not have the energy to fashion another hurtful remark. Instead he made a dismissive gesture. "I had no intention of doing so. If you want to leave, I shan't stop you." 

"And will I never see you again?" 

"Perhaps ... perhaps not." He turned from her, giving her his profile and making sure she saw only the right side of his face. 

The interview had long ago spiraled out of Christine's control. She had hoped that the news of her eminent departure might finally crack his stony manner, but he seemed wholly indifferent to her now. Something in her snapped, and she leapt from her seat to catch his elbow. Staring into his surprised eyes, she demanded feverishly, "Are you still a friend to me, Erik? Could I call on you if I needed you?" 

He felt weak in removing her hand from his sleeve, but it was not because her grip was strong. It was disconcerting to see her so convicted, especially when he himself felt so irresolute; he responded lamely, "You won't need me. You are a woman of independent means: new acquaintances, a job ..." 

It was her turn for a lame protest. "I dislike my job." 

He regained his poise and waved her remark aside. "You do not. When you told me about the little girl ..." He faltered, remembering how lovely she had been in that moment, and how careless. "... I could see the love in your eyes. You love the child and you do not dislike your job." 

She sat down again and crossed her arms. _Perhaps a bit of jealousy will turn his head ... _"I dislike the way her father looks at me." 

He seemed unimpressed. "Then leave." 

Her jaw nearly dropped at his indifference. "But where would I go?" 

"Anywhere - anywhere you like," he replied with a shrug. "It seems to me you've learned to get along just fine." 

"Without Raoul," she added with a significant inflection. 

He stirred a careless circle in the air with one hand. "Without Raoul ... without Erik ... without anyone." 

"But that isn't how I want it, Erik," she cried. "I don't _want_ to be alone in the world, without anyone!" 

"Christine ..." he sighed, "she who would be the governess ought not to be so childish." Her face contorted and he passed the same hand across the good side of his forehead. "You made your choice, my dear." 

A moment passed in which they merely looked at each other. Finally Christine swallowed hard and whispered into her lap, "You talk as if it's all over, Erik." 

He turned his shoulder to her and gripped his right elbow with his left hand. "It _is_ over, Christine." 

"No, it isn't," she suddenly insisted, reverting to her old stubbornness and jumping to her feet again, "not while you still love me!" 

He did not turn to face her, but his voice was flat and empty. "It has to be over so I can _stop _loving you." 

Another pause, and nearly a minute passed before Christine could muster a reply. Finally she choked out, "Is that what you want, Erik?" 

The rigidity of his form suddenly crumbled; he shook his head meaninglessly and his shoulders trembled faintly. "Yes ... no .... I want this torment to stop!" 

She moved to his side swiftly and placed her hand on his arm again. "Erik - I'm sorry I hurt you, " she ventured softly. 

He turned towards her, slipping out of her hold and fixing her with a look that smoldered. "No, Christine; you're sorry I won't leap to take up the torch the Vicomte has dropped. You're sorry I won't give you your way." 

She could barely hear her own voice. "You've turned so cruel, Erik." 

For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her with that same burning expression. Finally he moved ... took a bold, deliberate step closer to her ... reached towards her face. His fingers paused only inches from her cheek. "But you haven't changed at all, my sweet and selfish Christine." His voice was low and rumbling, like thunder in the distance. He leaned in so close she could have kissed him ... "If I seem cruel it's because you keep forcing me to repeat my answer, and because my answer remains 'no'. It hurts me too, you know - so much so that if you come to me again I shall leave Venice until you have gone." 

She bristled. "You're the one who's selfish! You won't even _try_." 

The good corner of his mouth twitched and he seemed to chuckle wryly under his breath. "_I_ selfish?" He turned his palm upward, his fingers pantomiming the motion of stroking her jaw. The gesture sparked the air around them and Christine caught her breath as he spoke deliberately on. "I loved you until my heart held nothing else but you ... and when you left I was empty." His fingers paused beneath her chin, and without touching her tipped her face up towards the waning afternoon light. "I am empty now, Christine. The Erik who loved you could survive your absence no better than a flower can the darkness." 

All that remained of her control crumbled; her very foundations collapsed and she suddenly found that she _did _have tears left. "If he is gone, then there is no hope of happiness left for me," she wailed. Dropping to the bench again, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep stormily. 

He was drawn towards her like a magnet. "Oh, Christine ..." he beseeched her softly, "please don't cry." 

She lifted her tearstained face and whispered fiercely, "Please don't send me away." 

Dropping to one knee before her, he looked for a moment as if he might relent; but when he spoke his response was tender but resolute. "If I don't, then _I_ shall be the one crying," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I want done with tears." 

Swiftly, she captured one of his hands in both of hers. Urgently she whispered, "I won't hurt you, Erik, I swear - I'll be so gentle ..." 

He rose, extricated his fingers from hers and ran them distractedly across his face. "Christine ..." came his sighed reply, "I can't." 

She burst into tears again. "You won't!" 

"If that's how you must have it," he said sadly, realizing that nothing more could come of this conversation. Willing himself to end it, he tipped his hat and began to retreat towards the house. "I wish you well." 

She paused in her weeping long enough to cry raggedly, "And happy, I suppose? How can that be, when even you don't care for me?" 

With one hand on the frame of the French doors that led to safety, Erik turned and took what he knew could very well be his last look at his beloved. For a moment he simply stood, drinking in the sight of her to warm him through whatever cold times might come. Finally he stepped backwards over the threshold onto the tiled floor of the de Jardin's foyer. "All I can hope, Christine, is that you truly are still the fickle child I knew, and that this sorrow will be of short duration. _Adieu_." 


	4. Loose Ends Further Tangled

**Chapter 4: Loose Ends Further Tangled **

How long she sat in the arbor Christine did not know; Erik's leaving had sealed her into a sorrowful reverie that made distracted tears drop down her face. Evening shadows were falling around her when she was jolted from her haze by the sound of approaching footsteps. She hurriedly wiped away her tears, fearing that her solitude might be about to be disturbed. The stride was too measured and heavy to be Estelle's. 

Moments later, Monsieur de Jardin was passing through the foyer. The evening light falling in the atrium at the center of the villa and illuminating the flowing hair and sad face of an angelic mademoiselle caught his eye immediately, and he paused in his path, breathless. The governess was seated on one of the stone benches amongst the trees and flowerbeds, unconsciously giving him her profile. In that moment the nearly two years of turmoil he had suffered in trying to conceal his feelings for the beautiful Mademoiselle Daaé seemed to dissolve; his hand moved to open the French doors almost of its own volition, and he stepped from the house into a moonlit fairyland where his sleeping princess seemed to wait for his kiss to wake her. 

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he greeted her softly, having closed the door behind him. 

"Monsieur de Jardin," she replied breathlessly, turning towards him and forcing her lips into a wan smile. 

He returned the smile, but his eyes were difficult for Christine to read.. "You have chosen a splendid spot to enjoy the evening. The way the moonlight sifts through the trees is quite bewitching." He strolled slowly towards where she was seated, his gaze lifted towards the darkening sky. 

"Yes," she answered softly, sorry he had mentioned the romance of the atmosphere. She had been trying to ignore it. 

A moment passed in which neither of them spoke. Christine was too miserable to trust her voice, and Monsieur de Jardin was imploring himself silently not to fall to his knees at her feet. Finally he felt he had himself enough in hand to express friendly concern. _And friendly concern might endear her to me ... _"You seem sad, Mademoiselle Daaé. Does something trouble you?" 

She was startled and dismayed at his question. "Oh, no, Monsieur," she stammered, trying to keep her voice even; "- I am just ..." 

"Please," he said softly, drawing nearer and seating himself beside her, leaving what he felt was a comfortable distance between them. "You seem so alone, and I wish you could look on me as a friend." 

"It's friends that trouble me ..." she choked, at last unable to contain herself. She burst into tears again and, mourning inwardly for having left her handkerchief in her bedchamber, wept into her hands. 

"Oh, how cruel - we have separated you from all you love," Monsieur de Jardin professed. He was afraid to lay a comforting hand on her, fearing it might tremble with concealed emotion; he placed his palm on the bench between them. "I was afraid that such a long trip would make you homesick. Please forgive me." 

"No - Monsieur, you are too kind -" she stammered, "no, it's not that. I have no one in Paris, no one anywhere ... not now." 

He leaned closer to her without thinking. "Please, my dear - you're overwrought. Won't you tell me what has happened to upset you so?" 

At any other moment Christine would have been uncomfortable at having him so close; but now she was too distracted in her misery to notice. It was the freshness of her pain that made her rise and wrap her left arm around her waist as she replied, "I met an old friend upon our arrival here." 

Monsieur de Jardin rose too, and spread his hands in relief. "Well now, that sounds like cause for happiness, not tears! I was unaware you had acquaintances in Italy." 

Her free hand drifted to her left shoulder, as if to embrace herself. It made her all the more bewitching to Monsieur de Jardin, and her sorrow-filled tone made him ache to replace her arms with his own. "So was I. We had not seen each other in five years - I did not know _where_ he was." 

Those final words caught in his ears. "He ..." he repeated softly. 

She did not seem to notice his reaction, for she spoke distractedly on. "I was so happy to see him - he had been ..." She stammered, and gesticulated vaguely with her right hand; finally the words came. "... very important to me. But our reunion was so cold, and he did not warm on later meetings - and now he has said goodbye to me as thoough he will not see me again!" That same right hand flew to her forehead, and tried to conceal the flood of tears that had begun afresh. 

"Oh, my dear!" Monsieur de Jardin cried, flying to her side and placing a trepidatious hand on her shoulder. "What kind of monster is this friend of yours?" 

She whirled to face him, eyes wide. His hand remained dumbfoundedly outstretched, and she pressed it impetuously. "No, please - you mustn't call him that!" 

Emboldened by her touch, he drew a breath, squared his shoulders and declared soundly, "Mademoiselle, any man who would not rejoice in your friendship does not deserve your tears." 

"Thank you ..." His sudden warmth brought a foolish and maidenly blush to her cheek; she quickly made a half-turn and bowed her head in hopes of concealing it. Recalling all the uncomfortable moments in which she had felt his eyes on her, she hoped this reaction would give no false impressions. 

As he watched Mademoiselle Daaé incline her dear chin and flush like a wallflower, Monsieur de Jardin could barely believe his luck. _Can it be ... that she returns my affection? _For a moment he struggled in silence, wondering what his next move should be; when she did not raise her gaze, he felt assured that she knew of and shyly requited all his unspoken tenderness. Slowly, he began on the path that would lead him to face her ... 

Monsieur de Jardin was moving carefully towards her; Christine assumed he was about to offer his handkerchief. But suddenly, he flung his arms around her waist and hugged her to his chest impetuously. 

"You dear, sweet, sad little darling!" he cried, leaning in as if to kiss her lips. 

She pressed with both of her palms against his shirtfront. "Monsieur!" 

"You are so beautiful, Mademoiselle ... Anna!" He pronounced the name as if to call her by it removed some great weight from his heart. "It pains me so to see you weep - when I know how happy I could make you!" 

"Sir, you forget yourself!" she admonished, not believing her ears. 

"I do not, dear Anna!" he professed with all the passion in his soul. "Two years I have struggled, tried to ignore the tender feelings you inspire in me ..." 

"Monsieur de Jardin!" Christine insisted as firmly as she could, pushing on him with all her paltry strength. All she could accomplish was to distance herself from him by an arm's-length. "You are a married man and I am your daughter's governess. Let go of me at once." 

He released her and took a step back, a sudden look of confusion creasing his face. "Forgive me ... I ... I had hoped you too felt a secret affection ..." 

Free now of his arms, Christine ran a hand down the front of her bodice; she felt physically and mentally askew. She managed to keep her voice even as she replied, "I am grateful for my employment and for your kind attempt to console me, but further than that you must not believe." 

His expression changed to one of shame. "Forgive me," he repeated, stammering; "forgive me." 

"I am sorry too, Monsieur," she said cautiously. "But now if you will excuse me, I shall pack my things and be ready to leave in the morning." Turning towards the door, she began a retreat into the house. 

"No - Mademoiselle Daaé - wait!" Her words twisted the knife the realization of his folly had plunged into his breast. Leave? He could not bear to hear it. Let alone that he would never see her dear face again - perhaps he had earned that with his foollishness - but to think that he had driven her, so helpless and so alone, into the wide world! The guilt was too great to bear! He must induce her to stay, by whatever costs necessary ... Stepping quickly around her, he prevented her exit. "You don't mean to go?" 

She turned her cheek, unable to look him in the face. "I'm afraid I must, sir." 

"But ... Mademoiselle ..." He raked his hand through his hair, clearly upset. Christine could tell he was struggling with his thoughts, and his face was contorted with mingled humiliation and guilt. Finally he burst out with, "You love Estelle?" 

Christine was surprised by this unexpected change of subject. "Of course I do," she consented warily. "She is a good, sweet child." 

"And I love her too - say what you like of her mother or of our poor methods of child-rearing, but you must admit - I love my daughter." 

Creasing her forehead, Christine wondered to what these odd remarks tended. But she was forced to reply, "Yes, Monsieur, I will not deny it; you are a very attentive father." 

"And you are an excellent governess." When Christine waved off the proffered compliment and began to move towards the foyer again, Monsieur de Jardin took a few stumbling steps backward and pressed his case further. "Mademoiselle, please, hear me! You said you loved my child - you would never wish her any pain?" 

Christine fairly gaped at his question. "Of course not!" 

"Nor I! But she would suffer if you left - she loves you, Mademoiselle, and if you left her heart would be broken." 

Perhaps he was simply trying to win her over ... but his words rang to the depths of Christine's heart, and she cast her eyes downward. "I had not thought of that." 

Seeing the iron fading from her expression, he felt inspired to press onward. "Do not break Estelle's heart, Mademoiselle; not because of a moment of indiscretion on my part." 

Christine shook her head weakly against the power of this persuasion. "Monsieur, I cannot stay if there is to be ... uneasiness ... between us." 

"Let me give you my word of honor, then - " To Christine's surprise, he dropped to one knee on the brown brick garden walk. "I swear to you it will never happen again. Please do not make me the cause of my daughter's tears - I could not bear it." 

This plea from a well-dressed gentleman who knelt at her feet in the moonlight was nothing like the one she had hoped for tonight. She was beside herself for some reply. "Monsieur ..." she protested weakly. 

He clasped his hands before him plaintively. "I _beg_ you, Mademoiselle. Upon my word, I shall never address you again - I would take back my arrogant presumption, if it were within my power. But it is not, and all I can do is entreat you: allow me to do penance." 

Silence fell and Christine's mind reeled with vain attempts to find some excuse for refusal. But none offered its services; she was quite alone in the world now that Erik had forsaken her, and to leave a well-paying, comfortable job ... The thought of Estelle weeping was her ultimate undoing. "Very well, Monsieur," she sighed finally; "but I shall hold you to the promise you have made." 

"Thank you," he whispered from the shadows of the path, and as he rose to press her hand briefly she noted tears in his eyes. She forgave him in that instant, for she could tell his own embarrassment would be punishment enough for him. Nodding in acknowledgement, she continued towards the house. 

As she stepped across the threshold, his voice once more gave her pause. "Mademoiselle - do you love him?" His question was sudden and surprising, and its frankness embarrassed her so she could make no immediate reply. Her silence made hope throb once more in Monsieur de Jardin's bosom, and he took a bold step closer to her. Mustering all the concern he could, he repeated his question: "Can you have given your heart to this man who has pushed you away?" 

Placing one hand on the door frame, much as Erik had upon his own most horrible departure, she turned and met his eyes. The concern she read there seemed genuine, and she could not help but answer. "I don't know ... I feel angry - miserable - confused." 

"He is wrong to have hurt you so," was his quick and tremulous reply. 

"No, I believe I may deserve it," she continued, shaking her head. "He loved me all those years ago and I did him a terrible wrong ..." 

Monsieur de Jardin's voice distracted her from the tears that had begun to form once more in her eyes. "He is mad not to forgive you, Mademoiselle." It was soft and tender again, aching with the sentiments that he feared to express. 

"Thank you," she interjected, and slipped quickly back into the house in fear of the things that he left unsaid. 

* 

The swiftness of their departure from Venice brought plaintive protests from Madame de Jardin; but Monsieur insisted that their travels had gone on long enough and that business called him back again to Paris. Realizing that their funds must have been dwindling to a dangerous low, the selfish woman finally ceased her complaints; and upon their return to France she found her homecoming less odious than she had anticipated. There was nearly two years' worth of gossip to catch up on, and more than one _confidante _to bring up to speed on the delights of her European excursion. 

Estelle too was glad to return to Paris; and Christine threw herself into the child's tutorials with a hurried conviction that reminded Monsieur de Jardin eerily of the zeal of a dying man. The urgency of the governess' feigned normalcy stung him. He alone knew that this façade was intended to conceal all the pain she had suffered in Venice, and he felt largely responsible for her discomfort. Again and again he replayed their exchange in his mind, and endlessly he wished he could turn back time and prevent the impositions he had made. Burn though he still did, the thought of having offended her in any way was hateful to him. In secret, he sought the advice of his priest; the father instructed him in a penance, but prayer did little to lift his shroud of guilt. Without mentioning it to his wife or discussing it with Mademoiselle Daaé, he raised the governess' salary a further five francs a week. Upon first noticing the addition, she had come knocking timidly on his study door. 

"Monsieur de Jardin, you have made a mistake here," she said softly, opening her palm to reveal the superfluous money. "You have given me five francs more than I have earned ..." 

Looking up from his account books, he regarded her solemnly. "No, please, take it - you have earned it twenty times over," his voice said. His eyes entreated, _Please, forgive me._

She glanced away a moment, taking his meaning and casting for a reply. His stomach twisted, not knowing what to say should she refuse his gesture ... but she met his eyes again and whispered, "Thank you." 

After the door closed behind her, he dropped his face into his hands and wept silent tears of relief; her eyes had said, _I forgive you._

And she did. Gradually, she was able to overcome the feelings of discomfort she had harbored since their conversation in the Venetian arbor, and during their first few months back in Paris the two repaired their relationship: perhaps even more than repaired - for a quiet, careful friendship began to grow between them. She was grateful for the care he took to reform his behavior for her comfort, for she was never again in his company but that his eyes were deferentially cast to the floor; and he was grateful that she would even permit him to be in her company. A silent and mutual respect grew, and he took to sitting before the fire in the music room as Christine oversaw Estelle's practicing at the piano. The child had improved beyond Christine's ability to teach her now, and all she could do was choose pieces for Estelle to learn on her own through repeated practice. From time to time Monsieur de Jardin would glance up from his book and admire the tableau the two young women created; but he was careful to go on with his reading and not let Christine know that he had noticed her. 

Winter yielded to spring and Estelle's tenth birthday passed. And thus a peace descended upon the de Jardin household. 

It was not to last. 

* 

_That_ Sunday mid-morning was dull and dreary; the rejuvenating rains of April, for all their life-restoring qualities, had made Christine feel rather dismal. There had been no sun for nearly a week now, and the dark clouds showed no signs of parting. 

Monsieur de Jardin had felt it necessary, despite its being Sunday, to spend the day at his office. Whether it was due to legitimate business concerns, or rather because Madame de Jardin was becoming increasingly peevish as the rain dragged on - Christine did not know, though she was inclined to believe the latter. She herself was more fortunate than he, in that she could easily avoid her mistress' company if she wished. And today she did so by arranging herself comfortably on a soft leather couch in the library; having decided to stay in from mass because of the dreary weather and her own low spirits, she intended to spend her free day reading. Estelle never troubled her governess on Sundays, and would probably linger all day over her dolls and daydreams; and Christine had never known Madame de Jardin to come anywhere near the library. She would be quite undisturbed there. 

The drumming of the raindrops on the windowpanes and the softness of the couch where she reclined soon coaxed Christine into a nap; the mantel clock showed almost two o'clock when she awoke. But it was not the chiming of the clock that woke her; it was the muffled sound of Madame de Jardin's giggle from within the library - and the responding rumbling of a male voice _that was not Monsieur's._

The couch where Christine reclined was placed facing the fireplace and so its high back concealed her form from their view; she was safe for now. But she had no wish to witness whatever intrigue was taking place in the library - and yet she had no means of escape. There would be no way to slip past them, for their voices seemed to be coming from one of the window-seats nearest the door. As she panicked for some plan, the man spoke. 

"My dear Babette," he said in a tone almost laughably suave. "This cannot be wise." 

"Oh, darling, please - no talk of wisdom! Won't you kiss me?" Christine's stomach lurched as her mistress' true colors were unfurled. 

He laughed, and the sound of it stopped Christine's breath; _she knew that laugh._ But how, and from where ...? "You little goose - what of your husband?" he whispered. 

"He isn't here," she giggled; and then her voice was stopped by what Christine could only assume was an adulterous embrace. Her blood boiled - to think that, for all the shrill accusaations she had made against Monsieur de Jardin in a voice loud enough for all the servants to hear, _Madame_ was the one whose fidelity should have been in question. 

But suddenly, every muscle in her body froze; she could sense he had risen and was pacing across the carpet towards her hiding-place. "Darling - where are you going?" pouted the brazen Madame de Jardin. 

"Discretion, my dear!" he chuckled. "I am only going to draw the drapes ..." 

Christine's couch was only a few steps from the window whose curtains stood open. There was no possibility that he would not see her ... Instinctively she screwed her eyes closed, and pressed a hand to each ear as if to somehow shield herself from the impending disaster. She sent a feverish prayer heavenward; _dearest Holy Virgin, let him be distracted by her enough not to notice ..._

Her prayer went unanswered, but his words echoed its sentiment. "God in Heaven," he breathed, his feet rooted to the carpet and his fingers seemingly frozen to the draperies; "Christine!" 

There was no mistaking it now - til the end of her days she would recognize _that_ pronunciation of her name. Her eyes flew open and she greeted him as calmly as she could manage under the circumstances. "Raoul." 

Madame de Jardin flew suddenly to his side. "Darling? Who is there?" She peered over the back of the couch as Christine sprang to her feet to face them. "_You!_" Madame became quickly incensed and her face went from a ghostly white to a most unflattering shade of red; she looked uncommonly like a pig as she shrieked, "How dare you! How long have you been hiding there?" Without waiting for a response, she whirled on Raoul. "_What_ did you call her? How do _you_ know her?" 

Raoul took a step back from the trembling clenched fists of his paramour. "Please, Babette - I ... I ..." Unable to stammer out a reply, he too whirled on Christine. "What on earth are you are doing here?!" 

"Your presence is perplexing to me as well," she replied coolly, surprised that even though this was her first glimpse of him since their final argument, she felt absolutely nothing for him. She crossed her arms. "I, at least, have some right to be here." 

"Christine, I _demand _to know ..." he was raging. 

Madame de Jardin, who had stood in shocked silence watching the exchange, suddenly seized Raoul by the lapels and fairly shook him. "_How do you know my governess?!?_" 

"Your _governess?!?_" Christine had never seen Raoul so beside himself, and she might have laughed if the situation had been any less dire. His eyes darted back and forth between Christine and his mistress. "But - how is that possible?" 

"Why?!" shrieked Madame de Jardin. "Who is she to you?" 

"_She is my wife,_" Raoul bellowed, seizing his mistresses hands and flinging them from his jacket. 

For a moment Christine was certain Madame was going to faint. Her face went completely white and she stood perfectly still, allowing her hands to drop ineffectually to her sides. But after a terrible moment in which Raoul and Christine watched her very carefully, she gathered herself together and spoke. 

"I don't know how you managed to impose yourself upon us," she said, balling her fingers slowly into fists that trembled, "but I have always known that there was something false about you." One index finger emerged from Madame's fist and wavered close to Christine's nose. "You ... are a snake," she said deliberately; "and you have slithered your way into my family - my daughter shows you far more affection than she ought, and my husband never takes his eyes off you. Don't think I haven't noticed! And now," she suddenly cried, gesticulating wildly towards the stunned Vicomte, "now this! I am sure you think yourselves quite clever! What was the intent - to shoulder me out of my own family?" 

"Babette!" Raoul cried, taking her sheepishly by the arm. "You don't understand - we are estranged ..." Madame de Jardin seemed to calm at his words, but the look she fixed him with was icy. "I swear to you ..." he stammered; "I have not seen her in years ..." 

Without a word to him, she turned away from Raoul to address Christine again; this time, however, an ugly smirk played at her lips. "Very well then - it seems your loss has been my fortune. Is that why you have tried to seduce _my _rich husband: because you had lost your own? I should have seen you for what you are, you brazen, money-hunting hussy! I should never have allowed you into my house - but _that_, at least, is a mistake I can remedy." Raising the dainty nose she was so proud of, Madame de Jardin purred in a haughty tone, "You will pack your things and be gone ... within _one_ hour." 

"Oh, Babette - you have that wrong, I'm afraid." 

Every face in the room was suddenly turned towards the doorway, where Monsieur de Jardin leaned almost casually against the jamb. "It is you, my dear, who will be leaving this house; and I dare say you haven't got a moment to lose. It will be falling dark soon." 

"Gerome!" the dishonest woman wheedled, flying towards him with all the sweetness she could muster. "Please, my dear, this is all so dreadfully muddled - won't you sit down, and have a cup of tea? We can talk about this in the morning ..." 

"No, Babette," her husband responded calmly. Christine was taken aback by his level manner, considering the scene upon which he had stumbled. "There is nothing I care to discuss with you; I want you to simply pack your trunks, and go." He made a deliberate nod towards Raoul, who cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Perhaps you would be so good as to take her off my hands, monsieur. It seems you have already begun the job, so I shan't deter you from your present course." Raoul's mouth gulped like a fish's, but no sound emerged. Monsieur de Jardin turned scornfully from the Vicomte and made as if to leave the room. 

"But Gerome!" Madame de Jardin cried, grasping his arm to prevent his exit. The calmness in his tone was disconcerting to her, and she cast for some way to turn his head. "What about the governess - did you not hear? This man is her _husband_ ... she has imposed herself unfairly on us! She is a liar!" 

"Dear Babette," he replied in a low tone that was foreign to him. Christine had never heard him sound so menacing. He shrugged off her hand and, turning, touched one finger to her chin. "What ever would _you _know about lies?" 

The gesture took Christine's breath away. Her vision seemed to flicker and in her mind, the de Jardins were replaced by two other forms. She was _another_ woman who had been so careless with the heart of a man who adored her; he was simply a man whose unshakeable devotion to his fickle beloved had finally been shaken by the deepest of betrayals. Tears welled in Christine's eyes and she clapped a hand to her lips to escape the sob that threatened to rend her. 

Raoul's distracted eyes caught the sight of his still-beautiful estranged wife, and the emotion he could see her struggling with touched his heart. How empty these last three years must have been for her! To think how she must have missed him! What she must have suffered in being reduced to a common domestic! As unfortunate as the circumstances of this reunion had been, he was glad that seeking the divorce had slipped his mind. How sweet it would be to gather her to himself again, to reclaim what he ought never to have relinquished ... "Christine," he murmured, moving towards her. 

He unfurled his arms and Christine understood the fear of an animal about to be entangled in a net. Turning swiftly on her heel, she fled the library; Raoul's voice, calling after her, echoed down the hallway and mingled with the de Jardins', which were now raised in bitter argument. 

"Of course you'll forgive _her_," Madame was shrilling; "her who you've wanted ever since she set foot inside this house ..." 

* 

Christine had fled to her room and locked the door behind her. Raoul, who had pursued her down the corridor from the library to the foyer, had lost sight of her as she quickly mounted the stairs that led to the second floor. Reluctant to intrude into that area of the house, he paused for a moment with his hand on the banister. He was still gazing into the dimness at the top of the staircase when Babette came storming into the foyer. "What did you mean by leaving me in there alone with him?" she demanded furiously. 

"It is hardly my place ..." he began sheepishly. 

"Yes, yes, it is not your place to stand by me as my husband shouts at me like a scullery-maid. And I suppose it _is _your place to chase that slut of a governess while you should be defending my honor!" She swept a thick fur coat around her shoulders and hurriedly pinned a veiled hat to her hair. "Come, we must go," she said, picking up the umbrella that Raoul had left leaning in the vestibule and gesturing for him to don his jacket. "That is, of course, unless you intend to allow Gerome to toss me into the street." 

"Of course not, my dear," Raoul whimpered as he shrugged into his coat. Then, tentatively, he began: "Babette, please allow me to explain about Christine ..." 

She dismissed the subject with a wave of a kid-gloved hand. "You will explain _all _about that, Raoul dear; but all in good time. Hurry, I can't stand to be in the same house with them a moment longer." 

* 

After he was sure they had exited into the rain, Monsieur de Jardin opened the door to the library and slowly made his way down the hallway and into the foyer. He could still detect Babette's perfume on the air, and the puddle that Raoul's umbrella had left on the vestibule floor was undiminished. How strange, that after nearly fifteen years of marriage his wife should so suddenly just not be there. 

He paced the foyer for a time, mulling over the bizarre turn of events; but his thoughts kept returning to Anna ... no, he had heard his wife's lover call her "Christine" ... Mademoiselle Daaé. After her hasty exit from the library, he had heard a door slam at the top of the stairs; he knew she must be shuttered in her room, pacing the carpets as he was, tearful and beside herself. 

Each time his absentminded steps brought him to the foot of the staircase, he considered climbing it, going to her and comforting her. And there would be comfort for him there, too; she alone could sympathize with his own tumult, she alone could hope to soothe it. How strange that their respective unhappy marriages should bring them so close together ... and could cement their newborn friendship with a deeply established understanding. _But would she want my company now? _he wondered. Finally, remembering the expression her face had worn as she quitted the library, he determined to go to her; he could not stand to be alone, or to think of her alone, in the midst of so much pain. 

His knock and a timid, "Mademoiselle Daaé?" admitted him to her room. She pulled the door back slowly, and upon meeting his eyes she drew back into the chamber and turned her back to him in shame. 

"I am so sorry, Monsieur - I shall go at once ..." Over her shoulder he could see that she had been packing her things. 

He moved to the bed and gently closed the trunk lid. "Why do you always offer _this _as a solution to any uncomfortable situation?" he replied with a wry smile. He was almost proud of himself - to express humor at a moment like this! "Anna ... no, I suppose it ought to be, 'Christine' ... you must not leave this house. I shall need you more than ever, now my wife is gone from it." 

His kindness left her speechless. She had been certain that the discovery of her years-long deception would spell the end of her employment. The depth of her gratitude yawned within her; she whirled and clasped her hands before her, whispering, "You must forgive me for lying to you, Monsieur ..." 

"No, no, please - I understand the position you were in. You must be calm - be assured my anger is reserved strictly for my wife. Not one ounce of it rests with you." He placed a carefully neutral hand on her shoulder. 

The reassuring touch undid her and she whirled to sob into his shirtfront. In that moment she did not about what impression she might give; her entire world had collapsed and the need to fall against some strong hero overpowered the weak will that had held off tears this long. 

Meanwhile, Gerome de Jardin's mind reeled. Babette had infuriated him but her unfaithfulness did not particularly surprise him. Their marriage had been crumbling over the past few years and it had only been a matter of time until something set in motion the final collapse. The shock here lay in the bizarre connection to the governess - the lovely young woman who now sobbed in his arms. As much as he was angry at the discovery of his wife's affair, he could not help that this anger was suddenly eclipsed by the weight of the beauty's head against his chest. How well she had mothered his darling child ... how keenly he now felt the cause of her constant sorrow, the abandonment by a fickle rich boy who had tired of her ... how long her sad eyes had made him ache to hold her, and now she felt pliant in his arms ... 

"My lovely Anna," he found himself whispering. "... No, Christine ... yes, you are even _more_ lovely as Christine ..." 

There was a time when Christine would have avoided an exchange like this one at all costs; but now she felt hollow and devoid of even the energy to protest. She was neither Anna nor Christine, and his kisses left her cold. 

* 

Christine woke from her listless sleep the next morning to the sound of yesterday's rain still pounding on the roof. Moving like a woman in a trance, she arranged herself before her vanity and stared deeply into the mirror. 

The circles beneath her eyes had their origin in fatigue but had been enhanced by tears. Between the strange emotions that accompanied her even stranger reunion with Raoul, and the guilt and shame she felt recalling Gerome's embrace, she had had much to weep over. The latter had occupied her mind most during her long night, and how to extricate herself from the mess she had created was her greatest concern. She did not - could not - requite Gerome's affections. Her heart belonged wholly elsewhere ... and yet had succumbed to his kisses, an action that he had likely interpreted as an acceptance of his regard. His fingers had lingered on her cheek as he left her last night, and his eyes had betrayed... more than Christine could guess at. She ought to have told him then, but she could not bring herself; she had felt weak with pain and sorrow, and was unable to muster the voice to protest. 

But now, as she sat before her mirror slowly pulling a brush through her hair, she realized that she must confess her feelings to Gerome. She could never face herself each morning before this mirror, a very symbol of her Erik-haunted past, with the knowledge that she had repeated her mistake a second time. 

She loved Erik. Rich, handsome and kind as Gerome was, if Erik would not have her she would end her life a spinster. 

Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, Gerome tapped faintly on her bedroom door. 

Shrugging quickly into a dressing-gown, Christine opened to his knock. He too was in his robe, though he seemed to be much more well-rested than she. 

"Good morning, Christine," he whispered, a soft smile broadening his face. "I am still drunk on the feeling of this new name for you, my dear ... it is quite intoxicating." 

"Gerome," she greeted him softly, her eyes downcast. 

"I did not wake you?" he asked, concern and apology in his voice. 

"No, no, of course not," she protested, stammering. Then, stepping aside, she opened the door wider. "Please, come in." 

He did, and waited until she had seated herself at her vanity to pull an armchair near the dressing-table. "You look as though you have not slept." 

"I have had much on my mind," she replied softly, again unable to meet his eyes. 

She reached for her brush, but he placed his hand upon hers and took it from her fingers. "I am so sorry, Christine," he said earnestly. "You should never be made to suffer ..." 

"But what about you?" she interjected, willing herself to turn and face him. "Surely you have more reason to suffer than I ... I am only shaken ..." 

Gerome bowed his head a moment. "It is strange," he replied softly, "but I am somehow unsurprised. Not at the connection with you, of course - but with Babette's behavior. I feel almoost ... as if I should have seen it coming. It has been some time since she and I ..." He faltered for a moment, then continued, "There has been little love in our marriage the past few years. It has been hardly more than a business arrangement since even before you came to us." 

"Gerome," Christine sighed, genuinely sorry for the pain she could hear in his tone, "how terrible." 

"But it matters little," he replied, throwing off his somber air and taking one of her hands into both of his. Then, catching her eyes and looking deeply into them, he began to speak. "This morning, Christine, I must tell Estelle where her mother has gone." Christine closed her eyes and nodded assent; but when she opened them again she found him still looking at her. 

"Gerome?" she ventured tentatively. 

He bowed his head again. "Christine, I am trying to work up the nerve to say something to you ..." A panicked sensation flooded her heart, but before Christine could respond he lifted his face and continued. "When I speak to Estelle this morning I would like to have you beside me ... and I would like to tell her that you will be her new mother, you who have always loved her and whom I have always loved." 

Christine inclined her chin at his words, and her eyes flooded with tears. She had feared she might have deceived him by accepting his caresses the night before, but had never fathomed how deep the deception. 

He was watching her reaction with a stricken expression. "Please, Christine, I know that you are shaken from all that happened yesterday, but please know that I will be so good to you - I will cherish you forever, as you deserve, my beautiful, fragile darling ..." 

"Gerome, please don't," Christine cried, the words ripping from her throat in an anguished sob. She pulled her hand from his and buried her face in her palms, weeping stormily. 

He was silenced by her outburst. "Christine - please speak to me," he implored her in a whisper. 

"I cannot -" she gasped between her sobs, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Gerome ... I have been so terrible and selfish ... I would never wish you pain ..." She dropped her hands into her lap and faced him with tears coursing down her cheeks. "But I cannot give you what you are asking for, Gerome - I love Estelle and I have a deep regard for you, but I cannot be your wife." 

He averted his eyes from hers in embarrassment. "Then ... you do not love me." 

Her lips trembled with the depth of her misery. "You are a wonderful man, Gerome, and you have done so much for me that not to love you is ungrateful ... but my heart belongs to someone else." 

"Your husband?" His voice was unsteady. 

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "My marriage to Raoul was a horror for me - he was cruel and oppressive and I was almost glad when he put me out of our home. No, Gerome - I told you something of it in Venice ..." 

A painful moment passed, but finally he nodded silently. "Your nameless friend," he responded, "the one who had been ... _very important_ to you." 

"His name is Erik," Christine said in a low tone, "and I have loved him as long as I can remember. Since my childhood I have waited for him - and he was kind, gentle, offered me all I could have ever wanted. But six years ago I made a horrible mistake - I allowed myself to be seduced by wealth and power, and I abandoned the man whose heart was always mine for a man whose heart I could never possess. It took me three years of marriage to learn my mistake; and when we met in Venice I thought I had been granted a reprieve. But because I left him once, all those years ago ..." Her throat tightened, and she choked on the words. " ... so Erik left me in Venice, with no hope that I shall ever see him again." 

"Christine," Gerome implored, suddenly taking her hand again, "do you think that I did not love Babette? I assure you that I did. We are both abandoned, you and I. But you could mend my broken heart ..." His fingers brushed her cheek, wiped away a tear and a loose lock of hair. "... And I know that I could soothe yours ..." 

Christine closed her eyes and her heart to his caress. "I am sorry, Gerome. I must tell you 'no.'" 

His hand dropped away, and he broke his contact with her fingers. "You would deny yourself the possibility of happiness with ... someone else ... all for this one man?" 

"If I cannot be his living bride, I would rather be a widow to his memory," she replied, her voice firm through her tears. "I am sorry for my behavior last night, Gerome. I should have told you then." 

"No, no," he stammered, "I am sorry. You were emotional ... I should not have taken advantage of you." Rising, he continued, "And I should not impose myself upon you now." Christine rose too and made as if to protest, but he put up his hand an offered a wan half-smile. "I know that you are going to propose to take your leave - you always seem to think that is the best solution to uncomfortable situations. But please know that I wish you would remain for Estelle's sake. My pride will mend, and when it does I also wish that we might be friends. I would not cast aside the regard of anyone who loves as deeply as yourself." 

Christine felt relief washing over her. "Thank you, Gerome," she sighed, drying her tears on the handkerchief he took from the pocket of his robe and offered to her. "I do not wish to lose your friendship." 

He nodded and retreated towards the door. "I am sorry, Christine. I have been forceful - please forgive me." 

"I do," she replied, overcome with his sincerity and the desire to mend the cautious trust that had existed between them, "and I hope _you _will forgive _me_. I was cruel to keep the truth from you, and last night ..." 

At the door, he broke into a smile that was self-depreciating. "_That _requires no apology, Christine. You heard no protests from me." 

Christine smiled in spite of herself and moved towards him, placed her palm on his arm. "You are a good man, Gerome, and I do care for you." 

He sobered and shook his head. "I know." Fixing her with a resigned gaze, "I will recover - my greatest injury is feeling like an ass." 

"Don't feel that way," she reassured him softly. "I am equally to blame." 

"Don't discourage me, Christine," he smiled again. "I go through life a spoiled man; there is little that the world denies me. To feel foolish for a while will build my character. But excuse me, I have imposed myself on you long enough." With that he slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps faded down the corridor, Christine pressed her forehead to the door, hoping resolution would be swift in coming. 

* 

It was. The vague discomfort that lingered briefly between Gerome and Christine dissipated, and within a year they were able to laugh about the entire affair together. As time passed and their friendship resolidified, Christine was able to confess to Gerome the full details of her relationship with Erik. Turning his teacup in his hand, Gerome chuckled over the fact that Babette had had the first premonition of all that was to transpire beneath the de Jardin roof; after all, she among them had been the first to speak the name of Christine Daaé. 

Estelle took her mother's departure remarkably well. Being the perceptive, intelligent child that she was, it had not escaped her that her mother was a fickle and hypocritical woman; she had overheard a few arguments between her parents that had long ago shattered her illusions of a fairy-tale family. Christine's continued employment as her governess made the change easier to bear for the child, and Babette's lack of attempt to visit her daughter made her less upset about the breakup of her parents' marriage. 

Within eighteen months the divorce was achieved, and Christine received notice shortly thereafter that her own union with Raoul had been dissolved. The letter that accompanied the documents she received from his lawyer was perfunctory, but she speculated that Babette had had something to do with the jogging of this long-overdue legal matter. In the library one winter evening, Christine and Gerome tippled champagne in celebration of their freedom. 

That was to be their last carefree moment; the ensuing six months turned Christine and Estelle's path through the vale of tears with the sudden onset of Gerome's illness. A consumptive fever brought him quickly to his knees, and a mere month after he first took sick the doctors were already shaking their heads. 

Christine and Estelle were at his bedside his last morning; but shortly before the end he sent his daughter from the sickroom. "I cannot have her watch me die," he whispered weakly. 

"You mustn't say that, Gerome," Christine whispered through her tears, giving his frail hand a gentle squeeze. "You're going to get well." 

It seemed a hardship for him to smile. "Dear Christine," he chuckled softly, "still such an innocent. Sometimes I wonder whether Estelle isn't _your _governess." 

Christine smiled. "I must admit that I need her, perhaps more than she needs me now she is grown so big." 

"Then it seems appropriate that you shall remain together after I am gone," he replied. 

"Gerome, no ..." 

"Please, Christine, we must talk of it. My time is growing close and we cannot delay it any longer." 

Silently, Christine nodded her assent. 

"You know that last week my lawyer came to speak with me ... I have left instructions in my will that Estelle remain with you. You are to be her guardian." His breathing became labored as his voice became more and more convicted. "Babette must not be allowed to claim her, Christine." 

"She _is _her mother," Christine said quietly. 

"She is no mother to my child - she has not seen her these two years." A fit of coughing overtook his words; when it subsided his voice seemed weaker. "You do know that she married Raoul, don't you?" 

Christine nodded faintly. She had heard the marriage whispered of, but hearing it from Gerome's lips was the final proof she required to lend it credibility. 

"I will not have that pair raise my daughter, Christine. You love her as well as any mother loved any child, and she has flourished under your care. Please promise me you will take care of her after I am gone." 

Bravely, Christine choked back a sob. "I will, Gerome; I promise." 

He smiled and fell silent, for the conversation had exhausted him. Soon he fell into a shallow sleep, which deepened gradually until he never woke again. 

* 

Although she felt petty and selfish for it, Christine worried over how she should dress in the weeks following Gerome's funeral. She did not want to give any false impressions to the nosy neighbors who had entertained themselves speculating about her "real" position in the de Jardin home by wearing full mourning; but it felt disrespectful to Gerome, for whom she had cared deeply, to wear her bright colors. There had been times when he would go with her to the dress-maker's on the pretext of ordering a frock for Estelle, when what he really intended was to influence Christine in the ordering of her own clothes. He always insisted she choose the finest materials, the richest hues, and was quick to offer up his own money when she pled the high price. He had spoilt her so ... 

On the issue of morning clothes, she compromised by restricting herself to dark shades; but even opening her closet in the morning brought tears to her eyes. 

Her choice of dress, however conservative, still caught the attention of Jean-Claude Retinue, Gerome's lawyer, who came to call some three weeks after the service. The deep mahogany of her gown complemented her pale complexion strikingly, and for a moment he forgot that she was probably wan with weeping. Gerome had been his friend but he had only ever guessed about the attraction he had felt for the governess; but her sudden beauty made Jean-Claude catch his breath and finally understand Gerome's silence. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought from his mind by forcibly recalling his own wife at home. 

"Mademoiselle, please allow me to express my deepest condolences. I too was close to Gerome and I know how you must still be grieving." 

"Thank you, Monsieur - and my sympathy to you as well." Christine fingered the lace handkerchief she had taken from her waist upon seeing Monsieur Retinue, knowing his visit must have something to do with Gerome. Although the weeks had brought her increasing composure, she feared he had come to discuss the will. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when he asked her to come into the study and placed his briefcase atop Gerome's now-clutterless desk. Christine took her place quietly across from him, her face sadly downcast and her handkerchief pressed to her lips. But she was not to retain that attitude long - Jean-Claude's first words brought her leaping to her feet. 

"That cannot be!" she cried. "There must be some mistake!" 

"Mademoiselle, please," he responded, obviously taken aback by her reaction. "I assure you there is not. You were at home the last time I came to see Gerome; surely you must have known we were drawing up papers having to do with the distribution of his estate." 

Christine began to pace the study distractedly. "I suppose ... I suppose I did, but ... never this! What was he thinking?" 

"As far as I can tell you, he was thinking that he wanted his daughter provided for," the portly lawyer replied. Watching Christine's distraction, he added softly, "And he cared for you a great deal, I believe." 

She lowered herself weakly back into her chair. "Is this how he shows me? By burdening me with all his money?" 

"It is hardly a burden, Mademoiselle. These days there is little more important. If you are concerned with its management, I could undertake it for you - as a favor, of course, I could not dream of charging you ..." 

Christine was beginning to cry. "I don't want his money." 

"But his daughter will - to clothe her, feed her, bring her out into society. Make no use of it yourself if it is distasteful to you." He rose and circled the desk, sat on the edge nearer to her. "Please, my dear, do not work yourself up so. You've been through enough." 

"I don't want his money," Christine wept openly. "I wish he were still here ..." 

Jean-Claude rose uncomfortably. "I can see I can do nothing by continuing to trespass on your grief, Mademoiselle. Excuse me ... I shall see myself out ..." 

Christine remained in her seat in the study long after he had gone, crying quietly into her palms. "Gerome," she whispered to his ghost, a habit she was rapidly developing; "_all _of your money. You always were too generous." 

* 

Days later, Babette de Chagny threw down the newspaper her new husband had sheepishly laid down before her. "_All_ his money, indeed! When it _should _be mine!" 

"My dear ..." Raoul stammered, all at once shocked at his wife's concern for finances and yet nearly afraid to chastise her. "... the child as well ..." 

"Oh, yes, and my child." Babette's snappish tone nearly made it sound like an afterthought. "Something _must_ be done about this." 

* 

The letter that Babette sent to Christine still lay on the desk in the study the day that Babette came storming through the door, all the while shouting at the servant who tried to prevent her. 

"_Don't_ speak to me like that, you horrid old crone," she cried, obviously addressing the kind elderly housekeeper Christine had hired upon the discovery of her new source of income. The former de Jardin servants, little Agatha included, had moved on to other pursuits after Babette quit the house. Gerome had only employed them for her sake, and he hated to live in the feigned opulence his wife had insisted upon since she was no longer there to insist. 

Christine sighed from the desk chair, where she had taken to seating herself when she was reading the newspaper and missing Gerome. She had known that the news of the will's contents would not be long in reaching his former wife, and had expected some communication from the dreadful woman. She had not expected, or perhaps she had rather hoped against, a personal visit from the former Madame de Jardin. Luck did not seem to be with her. 

"_S'il vous plaît, Madame_," the housekeeper panted to Christine, having beaten Babette to the study by a few hurried steps, "I could not prevent her from coming into the house ... I have never seen her before ..." 

"Of course not," Babette shrieked, close on the flustered housekeeper's heels. "_You_ would never have gained employment in this house while I was its mistress. I _demand_ to see her! _YOU!_" Her finely gloved hand transformed to an accusatory claw the moment she entered the study and came face to face with Christine; she lifted her dainty nose and gesticulated wildly with her pointed index finger. "I ought to have _known_ you would try something like this!" 

"Laura, you may leave us," Christine said softly to the housekeeper, who seemed more than willing to be away from this unpleasant visitor. When the study door was closed, Christine turned her attention back to Babette. She did not rise as she greeted her with a cool, "Madame de Chagny." 

"_Don't _you take that tone with me, you little chit!" cried Babette. "Don't think I don't know that you burn with jealousy over the fact that I have got your husband! And don't think I don't see through your little ruse - I know what has happened here!" 

"I hope you have not brought Raoul with you," Christine replied softly, "for though I have no wish to see him, it would be very rude of me to keep him standing in the foyer. As for you, I will thank you to keep your voice down. I do not want Estelle to know that you are here." 

"Oh, Estelle, _mon ange -_ how could you?" Babette now began to wave her handkerchief about, as if that alone could testify to her mother's grief. "How could you separate me from my darling child?" 

"Your darling child," Christine replied evenly, "has seen nothing of you since you left this house two years ago. You have no love for her, and I will not allow you to bring her into this. You are here about the money, are you not?" 

Babette sniffed and drew herself up to her full height, indignant. "I want to know _exactly_ how it is that you managed to connive your way into the affections and the pocketbook of such a good man as Gerome ..." 

Christine interrupted her in a voice so cold that Babette was sure she felt a draft. "Yes, Gerome was a good man - good enough to want his daughter always provided for, and to leave her to the care of someone who loved her. That is why the money was bestowed as it was, Madame - and you shall never see a penny of it. So you see, your visit today is simply a waste of my time - and yours." 

Taken completely aback by Christine's words, Babette allowed her mouth to drop open for a moment. Then, remembering herself, she clenched her jaw and adjusted her fur. "I hope you realize that you shall be hearing from my lawyer." 

"Then I look forward to his letter. No doubt it will be just as entertaining as yours." With that, Christine tossed Babette's missive to the floor in front of the desk. It hit the carpet and tumbled lightly towards the indignant divorcee's feet. While the petty woman stared with wide eyes, Christine turned away from her. "Get out of this house," she said softly, "and do so quickly and quietly, before Estelle comes downstairs. I am the mistress here now, and it will be my pleasure to call the gendarmes if necessary." 

Babette did not need any further urging. She stomped out of the house where once, a wave of her fickle hand would have brought her whatever her heart desired. Now it was all she could do to muster the dignity to leave it, her nose still high in the air. 

Christine herself remained in the study for several minutes with her palms resting lightly on the polished mahogany desktop, thinking of someone very much other than Gerome. "Heaven help me," she whispered to herself. "I believe it is still happening ... _his _spirit in my voice ..." 


	5. Le Reviens

**Chapter 5: Le Reviens **

For some time, Nadir had been ending his letters to Erik with invitations to return and visit him in Paris. As his friend whiled away the years in various parts of Europe and Asia, he noticed that his letters became less and less brooding, more full of hope and plans for the future. Nadir was glad to see Erik progressing so well, as he had been fearful that the whole affair at the Opera would break him. But now that so many years had passed, he began to wonder whether Erik's travels were not just elaborate ways of avoiding the site of his heartbreak. He did not relish the thought of Erik forever running from his past - nor the prospect of never seeing his friend again unless he himself were to travel to Italy, Russia, Austria... As much of a grain of sand Erik had at one time been in Nadir's shoe, he had to admit that, after such a long parting, he missed his friend very much. 

When a crisp envelope, addressed in the familiar spidery hand, arrived with a return direction in Geneva, Nadir replied to it quickly. "My dear friend," he wrote, "Since you have landed in a spot so near to Paris, I hope you will consider any one of my invitations to pay me an overdue visit. It has been too long since I had the pleasure of your company, Erik. Please come when you can." 

Though he hurried to post his letter, Nadir knew that Erik was not likely to return to Paris. Still, the closeness of his current roost made the invitation feel somehow less futile - and after all, it _had_ been nearly nine years since the curtain fell on Erik's career at the Opera. Perhaps it was true that time could heal all wounds ... but no, Nadir would not allow himself to grow carried away by hope. It would be hard enough when Erik's refusal arrived. 

* 

Erik had tired quickly of Venice after Christine's departure. Although he had tried to pretend that it did not matter, he could not stop their conversations from replaying in his mind. The look on her face as he stepped backwards through the French doors stabbed him; as much as he tried to forget it, it reappeared in his dreams and made him wake up weeping. Contracting lost its creative thrill, and when he finished with his last job he simply cut his ties and disappeared. He felt a small pang for his workmen, but supplied them each with a generous severance and hoped having survived working for him would bring them renewed respect in their field and the job offers such respect carries with it. 

He left Venice as soon as he was able; his tenure as a builder, however brief, had replenished his financial coffers enough for several years of carefully budgeted travel. He hoped that the sights and sensations of Europe, which had once before soothed his heartbreak, would again expunge the regrets from his heart. "Why did I leave her?" he asked the moonlit canals the evening he set off. "Was the price _that_ high?" 

The first year was the hardest, just as it had been after his departure from Paris; Italy gave him no comfort, and from Milan he decided to travel eastward, to the Russian cities where he had found solace after Luciana's death so many years ago. But still he felt restless, unable to plant himself in any of the soil his feet touched; and he wondered if he would ever be capable of recreating the independent life he had nearly possessed before he turned and saw Christine running after him in the marketplace. 

The only link he felt to reality as he drifted like a disembodied, melancholy spirit was his continued friendship with Nadir. He did not write his friend of his encounters with Christine in Italy - each time he took a pen into his hand the words that came were not enough to express the mingling and strangling of joy by anguish. Besides, he read between the lines of Nadir's letters that his "man of the world" charade had not fooled the daroga. Flit though he might from city to city, he knew that Nadir knew Christine was ever on his mind. 

When he wrote his friend from Geneva, a reply was swift in coming. "My home is always open to you," Nadir wrote, yet another attempt to lure him back to Paris. 

So many times before, Erik had waved aside such invitations. Nadir likely thought that returning and making peace with the places of his past would lend him closure; Erik had never felt inclined to play a part in Nadir's sentimental farce. 

But now he felt alone and empty, abused by the cold winds of despair that blew his hollow form through Europe. Even though Paris was the very graveyard of his murdered dreams, he longed for the solemn and comforting companionship of his old friend. 

"Very well, my dark knight," he muttered as he folded Nadir's letter. "Set up the chessboard; the black king is coming home." 

* 

With disbelief, Nadir surveyed the brief note that announced, ever so casually, Erik's acceptance of his invitation. 

"Look for me within the month," Erik wrote simply, "and have the decanter full and ready; there is much time to be made up for." 

Nadir felt dizzy even thinking of it - that, after all these years, Erik should so unceremoniously stroll across his threshold. But, he reminded himself, what else could be expected? With Erik, things were always inextricably complicated and yet supremely simple. 

Between the hurried preparations for his friend's arrival, Nadir suddenly found himself plagued by one worry: he had never mentioned to Erik Christine's presence in Paris. He had read of it in the newspapers nearly a year ago, the death of de Jardin and the consequent fortune and surrogate motherhood that had fallen to her. The scandal of the man's former wife - married now to de Chagny, how very ironic! - and her obsession with challenging the will had been splashed all over the Paris press. No judge would grant credence to her claim, of course; she was remarried and quite comfortable without her former husband's money, which was left to Christine for the care of his daughter. Angry at the enforcement of de Jardin's monetary bequests, the shallow woman had dropped all her claims to the child and soon made a grand departure from Paris altogether, the ridiculous Vicomte clinging tightly to her skirts. 

Christine alone remained standing, the victor of a bitter battle. He had not seen her, but the whispered rumor was that she had grown drawn and pale and rarely ventured into company, despite the clamourings of the nosy Parisian society. They would have welcomed her with open arms and she would have been their darling for a time; but she chose to decline their invitations and remain behind the closed doors of the de Jardin home on the outskirts of Paris. What little Nadir could glean of her current activities was this: she had placed her charge in a rather modest school for young ladies, and had become the silent beneficiary of an orphan's home. 

Nadir wondered, now that Erik would be returning, if he ought to tell him of the proximity of Mademoiselle Daaé. Unable to choose a course of action that made him feel at ease, he finally resolved that he would judge Erik's demeanor upon his arrival and make his decision then. It was his hope that his friend had finally let go of his attachment to the former chorus girl, and that the tale would bring no harm in telling. But his knowledge of Erik prevented him from putting too much stock in such an act of optimism. 

"Never mind," he told himself as he and Darius made their little flat tidy in anticipation of their visitor. "Wait and see." 

* 

The reunion at the doorway of the flat on the Rue de Rivoli was awkward in its very first moments, as the two men regarded each other with uncertainty as to the proper behavior for such an occasion. But after the initial strangeness of being so long apart and then so suddenly face-to-face dissipated, Nadir extended his hands. "Welcome, Erik. I am so very glad that you've come." 

As unexpected was Nadir's gesture to Erik, so was Erik's reciprocation of it to Nadir. The two friends embraced briefly, and when the strange but comforting sensation of it was over, Nadir guided Erik into the flat with an arm still draped across his shoulders. Erik, who knew the location of the daroga's dwelling but had only ever gazed in from the outside, stepped slowly about the sitting-room, admiring the small details of his friend's life. "It is good to see you again, Nadir," he said softly, fingering "the Persian's" opera cloak briefly before hanging his own cloak beside it on the corner hat-rack. The words of heartfelt friendship seemed so strange as they slipped easily over his tongue, but he savored them. 

"And you, my friend," replied the daroga warmly, seeming not to notice Erik's wonder. "Now come, have a seat, and I shall bring the brandy; we have so many years to fill in!" 

At first, Erik was wary of Nadir's wish to hear all of his personal business from the time of their parting; but as the warmth of friendship and of spirits washed over him, he found his tongue growing loose. It was only a few hours and a few brandies later that he was relating all that had happened in Venice with Christine. 

Nadir stared with ill-concealed shock as Erik told him of their repeated meetings, of the conversations they had had, and most of all of Erik's receipt of Christine's attempted persuasions. When at last Erik told of his departure from the twilit arbor and paused to take a sip of his drink, Nadir could no longer contain himself. "In Allah's name, Erik," he breathed. "You were right not to tell me of this in your letters - I should surely never have believed it." 

Erik shook his head and took a deeper draught of his brandy. "Nor I, my friend. Sometimes I am forced to tell the story to myself again, for I myself do not believe it." 

Though his words were benign, Nadir caught some tiny flaw in Erik's voice that rendered his tone suspect. Testing that weakness, he asked cautiously, "And you simply walked away. I hope you will forgive me, Erik - but I must admit I despaired your ever forgetting her." 

After a pause, Erik replied, "Of course I forgive you, Nadir. I acted like a damn fool." Silence for a moment, in which he toyed with the delicate glass he held in his long deft fingers. Then, softly, he continued, "I try to tell myself that my anger was justified - but she was such a silly child ..." He shook himself mentally, the reproach manifesting itself as a faint shake of his head. "But none of that matters now. I am no longer angry with her - I simply wish that chapter of my life to be closed forever." 

Again, words that made one assertion; but the tone betrayed something else, a nearly-concealed hollowness that might have escaped anyone but the oldest friend. Nadir caught it, and immediately made the decision he had been vacillating over for weeks. As soon as the opportunity arose he changed the subject, and the name of Christine Daaé was not spoken between them again that night. 

* 

Time passed pleasantly as Erik and Nadir became used to being in each other's company again. Nadir especially took a great deal of pleasure from the visit, for Erik was more than willing to venture out of doors now: a change to his personality that was somewhat disconcerting and yet infinitely interesting for the daroga. As it became clear to him that Erik was capable of accompanying him anywhere in Paris, an idea began to tug at his mental coat-tails. It took nearly a month for him to consider and reconsider the idea, probe his friend gently for indications of how he would receive it. Finally, nearly a month after Erik's arrival, Nadir made his determination. 

"Well then, Erik," he said one afternoon, closing his newspaper and removing his feet from the parlour coffee table, "what do you say to a night at the Opera?" 

Erik eyed his friend over his tea. "Don't be ridiculous, Nadir." 

"Come now, how can you dismiss it out of hand when you have not even heard what they are giving?" The daroga flashed his pearly teeth. "It is your favorite, Erik - it is _Faust_." 

Shaking his head, Erik drained the teacup and placed the china carefully on the table. "My dear friend," he replied, a jocular turn to his voice; "I am afraid that my occasional laughter at your pathetic attempts at humor have deluded you into believing that you are funny." 

Nadir threw back his head and laughed openly at Erik's jest, and rose from his chair to fix them each a nip of sherry. For several minutes the conversation was light and amusing, but in the end Nadir steered back to his original course. 

"But in seriousness, Erik," he began. "Don't you think you've been running long enough?" 

Erik, indignant at the re-emergence of a subject which was disconcerting to him, replied shortly, "I am not running." The sudden change in his tone gave quite the opposite impression. 

"Then come with me to the Opera tonight," Nadir responded glibly, picking up his paper again. "The curtain is at eight o'clock ..." 

With a sigh, Erik rose from his chair. "I don't understand your insistence, Nadir." 

His friend, lowering the newspaper to his lap, replied, "Don't you think it's time?" 

"Time for what?" Erik asked, leaning up against the mantelpiece and placing his empty tumbler atop it. "To return to the scene of the proverbial crime?" 

"It ought not to feel that way," Nadir reproached him, "if you have truly put your past behind you." 

"Is this a test, then?" Erik threw the words bitterly over his shoulder. "You confuse me, Nadir - you who are not a Christian and yet portray such a convincing Doubting Thomas. Why must you probe my wounds, Nadir?" 

"Please, Erik," his friend replied, his voice going suddenly soft with concern. He rose too and moved to Erik's side, placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't doubt you. But I _do _know you. I admire the strength of character it took for you to return to Paris; but why not take it a step further?" 

The turn of Nadir's voice was sincere, and struck a chord somewhere in Erik's heart; but he made no immediate reply. 

Nadir moved to face his friend and placed his remaining hand on Erik's other shoulder. "I truly think that it will do you good, my friend. If you are ever to be truly strong again, you must bury whatever ghosts you left behind you there." 

Silence for a moment, in which Erik waged a war inside his brain. He was indignant at the daroga's insistence, but deep inside the truth of Nadir's words nagged him. As much as he hated it, his friend was right; he had been thinking of Christine. He had never stopped thinking of her. Defeat washed over him in waves, and he was suddenly too exhausted to protest any further. 

Finally he raised one of his hands and, placing it on Nadir's arm, gave it a squeeze. "Very well, Nadir ..." He was trying to sound nonchalant and obliging, but a bit of nervousness crept through as he added, "As long as you will be there ..." 

"Each step of the way," his friend affirmed. 

* 

They were fortunate - upon their arrival at the box office they discovered that some wealthy patron had allowed his box to be sold that night. Nadir and Erik, each cloaked in understated evening finery, ascended the staircase to the Grand Tier and took their places only minutes before the curtain rose. And when it did ... 

Erik had been to the ocean in his travels, and had even gone so far as to step into the surf at the margin of the Atlantic and experience, for the first time in his life, an undertow. He felt that sensation again tonight, the feeling of the very earth being eaten away beneath his feet and his body becoming borne upon a rolling wave. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him - the lushness of the auditorium, the churning expanse of memories, the complex effect of the music. As moments bled into each other, Erik felt as though he were the only one in the auditorium; the other theatregoers around him melted into the swirling oblivion of gilding and red velvet and song. 

When the lights rose for the first intermission, Nadir turned to his friend in time to see him exhale deeply. "Did you breathe at all during the first acts, Erik?" 

A faint smile crossed the former Phantom's lips. "Only in time with the music," he whispered. 

Nadir smiled. "How do you feel?" 

"Strange," Erik replied. "Almost ... like a pilgrim in a cathedral ... like I'm profaning this place with my presence." 

Giving his armchair a half-turn towards Erik, Nadir leaned closer. "Then you are not sorry we came." 

"No," Erik breathed, casting a thirsty glance across the auditorium. "I cannot lie to you, Nadir - I _did _want to see it again." 

Nadir allowed himself to feel relief at this reply. "And how do you find it?" he asked. 

"Unchanged," Erik replied, smiling softly again. "So funny, somehow, though I don't know why it ..." 

His voice died suddenly as he was sweeping his glance along the tier. The aborted remark disintegrated into a sharp intake of breath. 

"What is it, Erik?" 

"It may be my memory playing tricks on me, but ... give me your opera glass, Nadir. That looks uncommonly like ..." 

Following Erik's gaze, Nadir's own eye entered a box across the tier from them and lighted upon a face he recognized with dismay. He had glimpsed her in the foyer as they were hurrying to their seats, but in the crush had assumed he was simply seeing ghosts. Now that he saw her again, although she was only faintly lit by the house lights, there was no mistaking this woman's reality - or her identity. "It is," Nadir replied, his tone sinking as low as his heart. 

Erik raised the tiny binoculars. At any other moment, the Persian's infuriating calm might have grated on his nerve; now he did not seem to notice it. "You knew she would be here?" 

Nadir winced at the frankness of the question, knowing it would no longer be possible to conceal from Erik his knowledge of Christine's recent history. He sent a silent prayer heavenward that his friend would not begrudge him his deception, which was executed out of honest and deep personal concern. "I knew she was in Paris, yes. But I did not expect her to be here tonight, or else I would not have brought you." 

Erik waved aside the superfluous parts of the remark. "How did you know?" 

Nadir spread his hands. "Since _you_ left Paris, I have had little to do with myself other than attend others' business." 

If he noticed Nadir's attempt at backpedaling, he did not dignify it. "Why did you not tell me?" 

With a sigh, the Persian replied, "I wanted to, Erik. But I did not know ... if it was better, _not to._" 

A moment passed in which Erik said nothing. His fingers flexed around the opera glass as he puzzled over this quandary. Christine - his beloved still, though she had immersed him for the past eight years of his life in layer upon layer of blinding pain - once again so near ... And Nadir - his only friend in the world - had kept it from him! The old fury, hibernating somewhere in the depths of his soul, stirred; but it sickened him, and he exhaled deeply. Nadir had his interest at heart, and he had learned all too well the consequences of anger and bitterness. "How long ...?" His voice was weak with the effort of forgiveness. 

Nadir misread the soft tone and worried that Erik sounded as though he might faint. Carefully, he released a small dose of the truth. "Longer than I know for certain. She had been in the employ of a wealthy man, tending his daughter - the girl beside her. About a year ago he died and left all his belongings to her, along with custody of the child. It was about then that I became aware of her presence in Paris." 

Erik drew into himself, suppressed any reaction to Nadir's tale and turned the details over in his mind. _More ... I must have more_. "How was that?" 

The blunt questions gave Nadir no room to manipulate the tale. What was it about Erik that inspired such supreme honesty? "There was rather a scandal, I'm afraid. Apparently the gentleman had an estranged wife who was unhappy with the will - but there had been a divorce, and a remarriage, so she had no just recourse. Christine inherited it all." 

_Christine an heiress ... how strange. _"How much?" 

"More than she makes use of herself, which as you might guess from her gown is not too much. There is a healthy sum for the child, and she gives generously to charity. A girl's orphanage here in Paris benefits the most." 

Erik was quiet, examining her through the opera glass. Her beauty was unaltered, but for some reason she seemed to only resemble the Christine he remembered. There was something different: a certain set of the mouth, perhaps, or a more temperate expression in the once-doe-like eyes. Her gown, despite Nadir's depreciating remark, was well-made in a conservative style; its dark blue set off the whiteness of her still-supple throat ... He drew a deep breath and let the glass fall. He felt, in that moment, for the poor fools who gazed too long at the Medusa; and he wondered if they too knew their fate for just one painful heartbeat before they turned to stone. He felt that now, as once again he realized he was doomed for ever laying eyes on her. He was not ready - he never _would_ be ready to see her again. 

The reaction he had been concealing so carefully suddenly broke forth in one small word. "Nadir ..." he said softly. 

The Persian had been waiting for this inevitability. "Shall we go?" he asked gently. 

Erik's knuckled were white from gripping the red velvet lip of the box. "I don't know," he whispered. 

"Does she still effect you so? You said you had forgotten her." 

"I said I had forgotten the anger I held for her. And I had thought ..." He shook his head weakly. "But I had not _seen _her." 

"And now that you have?" 

"Nadir ... look at her." 

He did, and sighed. "I shall call the box-keeper for our cloaks." 

But Erik did not seem to hear him; he had leaned back into his armchair, let the shadowy interior of the box envelop him, and raised the opera-glass again. Nadir reached out and lightly jogged his friend's elbow. "Erik ... this cannot be healthy for you." 

Guiltily, he handed over the glass. "Yes, you are right," he answered, his voice soft with resignation. Rising from his chair, he absently adjusted his hat over the special flesh-colored full-faced mask he had fashioned for use in Paris. It looked almost like a normal face, and beneath the brim of his fedora the shadows were kind to him. He no longer cared about reactions to the white half-face; but for the Opera, no need to take chances. "I believe I should go to the Rotunda for a drink, Nadir. Order the horses, won't you?" 

He turned to go, but Nadir caught his elbow. "To the Rotunda - and nowhere else?" 

Erik fixed him with eyes that smoldered. "Nadir, look at me." He held out his hands. "I'm trembling - just from _seeing _her. Do you think I _could _go to her?" 

A moment in which the friends regarded each other. Nadir knew that perhaps he had cut too close to the quick with his question; he could read pain in Erik's eyes. But there was truth there, too ... he released him gently. "I will come find you when our carriage is ready," he said, turning to open the door. They exchanged a glance, and Erik quitted the compartment. 

Nadir turned back to the auditorium and, to his surprise, to the eyes of Christine Daaé. She was staring directly at him, and before he could stir a muscle she had jumped up and left her charge alone in their box. His heart sank and his body leapt to life; he had read recognition in her face. 

Leaning out into the foyer, he motioned to the box attendant. "Our horses, if you please ... and our cloaks." 

The little woman's eyes widened. "Is something wrong, Monsieur?" 

He had feared such a reaction and pressed a ten-franc coin into her palm. "No, bless you. My friend is just not feeling social this evening after all." The half-truth seemed to satisfy her - or perhaps it was the money; but she dipped a curtsey and scurried away to speak to the livery-man. A knock a few minutes later brought Nadir back to the door, expecting their cloaks. Instead, he opened to Christine Daaé, whose blue eyes were a bit too bright in her pale face. 

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he greeted her, shielding his alarm behind a chilly façade. 

"Monsieur," she breathed, peering over his shoulder into the box; she found it empty. "Forgive me ... but I thought I saw ..." Her voice trailed off, but when he said nothing she suddenly grasped his arm and whispered urgently, "He _was_ here, wasn't he?" 

He sighed and extricated himself gently from her grip. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I must be going." 

"Please," she gasped, taking his elbow again, "you don't know what I would give to speak to him." 

Her persistence made him forget to deny Erik's presence further. "I do not know that he would wish it." 

She was visibly upset by his words. "Did he see me? Did he leave you here to tell me that?" 

He understood the depth of Erik's pain in that moment, for although Christine was nothing to him, the tears that rose in her eyes stung him. "Mademoiselle," he sighed again. "I am only Erik's friend - I cannot speak his mind. But I _do _stand between you ... and Iwill not see him harmed again." 

"You mustn't say that," she whispered, her brow creasing and her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. "I would not hurt him for the world! All I want is to speak with him ... I have not seen him in three years ..." 

"He told me how you parted then," he replied flatly. 

It was her turn to look stung; she recoiled slightly from him, taking a small step backward. "You think me a terribly selfish creature, don't you?" 

"Mademoiselle Daaé, please do not excite yourself." 

Jumping forward again, she pressed her tiny, chilly fingers to his hand. "Please, you must understand! I am ..." she dropped her eyes and blinked back her tears. "I am very much changed. If you won't tell me where he is ... please, at least tell him that." 

Nadir also dropped his chin and slipped out of her grip and the box. "I will, mademoiselle." As he hurried into the crowd, he muttered under his breath, "Should the subject ever arise." 

* 

Presently, Christine resumed her seat beside Estelle in their box. 

"There you are!" the young lady exclaimed. "You startled me by disappearing so." 

"I'm sorry, dear," Christine replied, giving her hand a distracted squeeze. "I saw some old friends and had to hurry to catch them." It pained her to lie to Estelle, but it had been hard enough to confess her old connection to the Opera. She could not quite bring herself to talk of Erik now. 

"Oh, how lovely," the girl exclaimed. "You must invite them to visit us - how nice it would be to have company again!" 

Her little charge's words rang to the bottom of Christine's heart. She was aware that her lifestyle had become reclusive since Gerome's death, but she had not known that Estelle felt it so keenly. Silently, she vowed to no longer deny the blossoming young woman the opportunity to see and be seen. "Perhaps they will come," she whispered. She was glad as the lights went down; pressing her handkerchief to her lips, she vainly sought the blackness for hints of Erik's spirit. Estelle thrilled at the sights onstage, the fairies and princes of her dreams coming to life before her eyes, but they barely attracted Christine's notice. She dried her tears during the curtain call and ushered the young lady home to bed. 

* 

After their night at the Opera, Erik began to betray restlessness. He had slipped all of Nadir's attempts to draw him into conversation about what occurred that night, but instead spent all the private time he could muster brooding over it. Being in such close quarters with Nadir, such time was difficult to procure, and it was obvious the daroga had noticed his deterioration in humor. For several weeks, the atmosphere in the flat on the Rue de Rivoli was tense at best. 

But the roots of friendship between Erik and Nadir were decades deep; eventually the taut silence began to dissipate and a degree of ease returned to their interactions. Nadir stopped pressing his friend to speak about Christine, hoping that Erik would begin conversation on that topic when he was ready. Finally, one day over sherry, Erik drew a breath to speak; but his words proved different from what Nadir had expected. 

"My friend." Erik's voice was soft as he rested the cut-glass tumbler on his knee. "I think the time has come for an admission ..." 

Nadir's heart leaped in his chest, thinking that they would finally have it out over their excursion to the Opera. Silently he nodded, not wanting to speak for fear that Erik would change his mind in the time it would take to make a verbal reply. 

But instead, Erik began to speak on a subject entirely other than what Nadir had expected. "I have trespassed on your hospitality for nearly three months - longer, I think, than politeness permits." He paused to sip the sherry; Nadir waited in surprise for the remainder of his speech. Finally, the small twitching began at the corner of Erik's mouth - Nadir had come to recognize this as a smile - and he concluded. "If I do not establish myself somewhere I shall be forced to _make_ you accept money from me, to cover my board." 

At first Nadir was speechless; he was taken aback at Erik's sudden proposition of departure, but also at the empty sensation that flooded him at the thought of it. He had not realized how used to Erik's company he had grown, nor how much he truly enjoyed being with him again; as good a companion as was his man Darius, and as much as the daroga hated to admit it, he was really quite lonely here in Paris. "I shall hate to see you leave, Erik," he finally replied with as much of a smile as he could muster, "but you know I cannot accept money for your keep - you are my guest, although a stubborn one. I know very well I cannot dissuade you if your mind is made up. So where will you go?" 

An almost careless flexing of the right hand accompanied Erik's reply. "Not far," he said, his voice very nearly nonchalant; but Nadir's ear was well-tuned, having spent so long in Erik's company, and he could hear the falseness of the tone. He did not question his friend with words, but the silence that descended upon the end of Erik's remark gave Nadir to know that his incredulous expression did not go unmarked. "Perhaps I shall not leave Paris," he finally murmured, lifting the liquor once again to his lips. 

These words were welcome to Nadir's ear, for it left him the possibility of future meetings with his friends; but recalling Christine Daaé, his suspicions were immediately roused. "And for occupation?" he probed, rendering his voice light and wry. "Surely not building - this city is already home to one of your monstrosities, and I believe one is more than enough." 

Erik chuckled. "Yes, the Opera can hardly be bested. No, I had not intended to contract ..." He twisted the glass between his fingers, setting its contents swirling in a slow, undulating dance. The words that followed had a special weight. "I had considered teaching." 

"Had you?" Nadir inquired, not entirely as surprised as he allowed his voice to betray. 

He nodded, not meeting his friend's gaze. "I'm sure you don't think me ready ..." The silence was heavy, and he seemed to struggle under it; but finally he threw it off and looked up into his companion's face with a strange expression. "... But I am, Nadir. I am tired of this gulf between me and the rest of the world - I want to span it. I want there to be some life touched by mine that will continue after I am gone." 

Such philosophy seemed sudden and strange coming from the ever-satirical Erik. Compelled by the urgency in his friend's tone, Nadir reached out and placed his hand on the arm of Erik's chair. "You _have_ touched lives, Erik. Think of who you are speaking with! Who is more affected than I, for having known you?" 

He shook his head. "No, Nadir - your friendship is valuable indeed, but you mistake my meaning. I need to pass along something of myself ...." He spread his fingers and regarded them carefully. " ... some of the magic in these hands ..." 

Nadir cleared his throat, uncomfortable to see his suspicions so nearly confirmed. The sound jerked Erik from his reverie and he fixed his friend with an earnest expression. 

"I know what you're thinking - the last time I tried such a thing I nearly brought the heavens down around my ears." He paused for a moment and bowed his head over his interlaced fingers, as if to collect his thoughts. Presently he continued, "But this time is different, Nadir. _I _am different ..." He drew a breath and his frame straightened, as if thinking of her required a physical rigidity to keep him calm. " ... and this time, there will be no Christine Daaé." 

Gravely, Nadir nodded and folded his hands on his knee. "What will you teach, and where?" The question wordlessly communicated Nadir's trust in Erik's honesty, which clearly touched him although outwardly he made no indication that he had perceived it. 

Erik's tumbler was long dry now, and he fidgeted with it as he considered his answer. "I don't know," he said finally, his voice absent again. "Perhaps music ..." A moment passed where Nadir knew that he was still thinking of Christine, but he made no mention of it; and soon the small twitching returned as Erik tried to convince his friend of his good humor. "Yes, I shall teach music, and I shall teach it to the wealthy brats of Paris." 

"The children of the upper class?" Nadir questioned, bemused himself at Erik's plan. 

"Of course," he replied, a wry turn to his voice. "Greedy, rich parents who want their little lap dogs nicely trained. I dare say it will be entertaining at the very least." 

Nadir chuckled under his breath. "One hopes that you will keep that frame of mind." 

"What, do you think I shall grow annoyed at their stupidity and strangle them?" Erik laughed aloud. "My dear friend - if that is your fear, I shall promise never to offer them violin." 

At any other moment, reference to the punjab lasso might have been menacing; but the spark in Erik's eyes was infectious, and Nadir laughed in spite of himself. 


	6. Bless the Child

**Chapter 6: Bless the Child **

"Just this way, Monsieur," murmured the timid little maid who had opened to Erik's knock. He followed the young lady as she fluttered down a hallway to the headmistress' private office, casting nervous glances at him over her shoulder. Pulling aside the heavy door, she whispered, "I shall fetch Madame for you, Monsieur." He swept into the chair she had indicated and watched her hasty retreat; he was used to such treatment after all his morning's errands, but this young woman was by far the most entertaining servant he had encountered thus far, with her snub little nose and her huge mob cap. 

As he waited for the formidable "Madame" of whom the maid had spoken, Erik reflected on this day's occupation: he had visited several of Paris' schools for upper-class children, seeking employment as a maestro of music. Hitherto he had been unsuccessful, his strange appearance garnering even stranger responses from the proprietors of those institutions. One headmaster had slammed the door in his face outright. But Erik remained unruffled, confident that it was only a matter of time before he happened on a school that would suit him. 

He knew he was in luck the moment he turned towards the clicking of the door latch. Madame Blèdurt, the headmistress of this particular school for young ladies, was an unmarried woman of middle age; but Erik could read in her face as she came through the door a certain flair for the dramatic and self-serving. Such a woman might very well be ... persuaded. "Madame," he greeted her, rising and dusting off that long-unused talent he had for charming the unsuspecting. With a slight bow, he introduced himself; "Erik Rouen at your service." 

"Monsieur ... Rouen," she replied, taken suddenly aback by the rich velvet voice that issued from the throat of the strange-looking man standing in her office. It effected her deeply, in some seldom-used part of her heart. "I ... forgive me, have we met before?" 

"Oh, no, forgive _me_," Erik said smoothly, already enjoying his little game; "I have come here quite uninvited. I really must apologize for my trespass, but I have a business proposition I had hoped would interest you." 

"Really," Mme. Blèdurt replied, cautiously enthralled. There was something powerfully attractive about M. Rouen that she could not quite define; it was only now beginning to dawn on her, however, that his hat was at such an angle on his head that she could not see his face. She skirted her desk and took the chair behind it. "Please, be seated, and tell me why you've come." 

Erik rearranged himself on his chair and began, "I shall be brief, Madame, for I know you are busy and do not wish to take up any of your valuable time." He spoke slowly, gauging the effect his voice was having on the schoolmarm; her chin was slightly lowered and her forehead faintly creased, but she was watching him with a definite interest. This was a good sign. Adding a slight lilt to his tone, he continued, "I am an accomplished musician, if you will forgive me for such conceit, and I am seeking a position as a maestro." 

Her surprise was evident. "A maestro of music! Forgive me, Monsieur, but we have not employed a maestro for quite some time." She shifted ever so slightly, attempting to peer inconspicuously beneath his hat brim. 

"I had heard that," Erik replied as smoothly as silk, "for I will not conceal from you the fact that I have been to several other schools this morning. But surely you must know the benefits of offering music to your pupils - it could prove a most profitable addition to your curriculum. And I assure you, my talents as a teacher are unparalleled." 

"Monsieur," she wheedled, perhaps thinking herself coquettish, "one of our primary concerns at this school is to teach the students manners - and every gentleman removes his hat upon entering a house." 

Erik smiled faintly, pleased to see his bait taken. "Forgive me, Madame - I have been rather rudely treated by some of your competitors this morning, and have forgotten myself." He removed his hat with his right hand, swiftly running his left over his hair to ensure it was all in place. The graceful gesture stirred something in Mme. Blèdurt's sensibilities, but the shock of his mask could not be overpowered. 

"I ... I don't know that I can make such a decision today, Monsieur ... Perhaps ... perhaps you might return tomorrow ..." 

Having expected such a reaction, he stroked her with his voice as one might caress a nervous cat. "I take your meaning, Madame - the mask disconcerts you?" 

His words had the desired effect, acting almost as a truth serum. "Please, Monsieur," she whispered, only half-aware of the admission she was making; "it is just so startling ..." 

He held up one graceful hand; the motion was so fluid it made her catch her breath. "Please," he said softly, his tone gentle and almost tempting, "I am really quite used to the reaction. Allow me to explain - the mask is the physical testimony to my concern for your comfort." 

"Monsieur?" she whispered, her mind reeling against the almost instinctual reaction his grace and the beauty of his voice were producing in her. This man had only just entered her office, and yet she felt he was speaking to her as if she were reclining in his arms, his mouth only inches from her own ... 

"I am quite ugly, you see - a tragic accident destroyed my face." _The accident of birth_, he remarked wryly to himself; but he found the syllables easy enough to pronounce. Perhaps he really _was_ suited to life above ground. "I wear the mask for you, and for all who must see me - for your pupils, and their parents. I promise you, you will become quite insensible to it once you have witnessed my skill as a musician." 

She shook herself mentally, tried to break the hold he was weaving over her. She knew she ought to suspect him of embellishment, but she could not conceive of _that voice _uttering an untruth ... her own voice was choked with emotion at the beauty of his. 

"Madame, I can see you are incredulous," Erik continued, his tone waxing vaguely seductive, "and I can assure you I can understand your position. Please, allow me to prove my ability with a small demonstration?" 

The ample spinster seemed to relax. "We have a piano you might play ..." 

"Oh, no, you mistake me - of course I am a performer myself, but today I mean to exhibit only my prowess as a teacher. Bring me your best pupil, and allow me to instruct her for one hour on her instrument of choice. If at the end of that hour you do not find her greatly improved, you may turn me out of your establishment with all alacrity." 

The strange request worked wonders in breaking the spell of his voice. She stared at him, and although she could not read anything in his strange blank face she could tell he was in earnest. The talent he was boasting seemed impossible - but if it were true ...! Mme Blèdurt had recently heard tell that her school was considered an inferior rival by her fellow Parisian schoolmasters, and that nagging indignity goaded her. Finally she replied, "Very well, Monsieur. Without a doubt, my best pupil is Estelle de Jardin; she is fifteen and studies the piano. I must warn you, however, that she is already quite accomplished." 

"It makes no difference," he replied, the waving of his hand seeming almost careless. "One hour under my tutelage shall show improvement in her performance." 

"We shall see, Monsieur." She moved to the door and addressed one of the several servants that Erik could sense had assembled outside it. "Fetch Mademoiselle de Jardin here at once, and tell her to bring her music." 

Moments later a knock at the door revealed a pale, slender young lady with round spectacles perched atop her little snub nose. Her appearance was peculiar but not unpleasant; Erik consciously put down the reaction her voluminous brown waves stirred in him. "Monsieur Erik Rouen," Mme. Blèdurt said in a pompous tone, "allow me to present Mademoiselle Estelle de Jardin." 

The child extended her hand as she had been taught, but her wide eyes betrayed a curiosity that obscured mannerliness. "Monsieur," she breathed. 

He liked the child instantly and, reading an abundance of fantasy in her eyes, he decided to indulge it. Taking her little hand in his lithe gloved fingers, he bowed deeply. "Mademoiselle," he greeted her in his most mysterious tone, "I am a teacher of music, and I wish an hour of your time. Would you permit me?" 

Erik's assessment of the dreamy child proved correct - her face lit up like a Christmas window. "Oh, yes, Monsieur!" 

Stepping to one side, he invited her to precede him into the adjoining music room. "I am told you are quite accomplished at the piano, Mademoiselle." 

Estelle blushed. "Your sources are overly generous, Monsieur ... I have never had a real teacher, and I am sure you will hear that very clearly." 

"Have you no maestro, then?" he asked, surprised at her modesty and candor. 

She shook her head. "I have learned at home - my guardian began me on the instrument, but when I surpassed her ability to teach me I learned simply by persistent practicing." 

Mme. Blèdurt was bringing up the rear of the procession into the music room. "Estelle has had no formal training, Monsieur, but she possesses a great natural ability ..." 

Once over the threshold, Erik turned on his heel and closed the door gently on her . "One hour, Madame." 

Taken aback by his behavior, Mme. Blèdurt could only stare at the paneling inches from her nose. When she finally collected her wits, she shook her head indignantly and retired to a nearby armchair, where she spent the hour fanning herself with her handkerchief and repeating, "He _must_ be a musician - the nerve!" 

* 

When the music room door opened and Erik emerged, what appeared to be a smile was playing around the exposed corner of his mouth. "Madame, I bid you enter," he said jovially. 

He was as good as his word. Estelle de Jardin, who had played well but mechanically previously, now infused each note with a heightened sensitivity. Her pianissimo was as delicate and pure as paper-thin ice. Mme. Blèdurt barely breathed as she heard the child play, and was moved to applaud upon the closing of the piece. 

"Monsieur, you are a treasure," she cried, imagining the aristocrats of Paris clamoring to have their musically inept children admitted to her school. "You simply _must _stay on as our maestro of music!" 

Erik chuckled inwardly at her sudden change of heart; placing one hand on the edge of the piano, he leaned in close to Estelle's ear. "What do _you _think, Mademoiselle de Jardin? Shall I stay and see you again, perhaps once a week?" 

Estelle de Jardin had been under Mme. Blèdurt's wing for nearly a year, and she had come to know her as a somber, purposeful child; and so the sudden burst of energy from the little musician was quite startling. "Oh, _please_, monsieur," she cried, jumping to her feet and clasping his other hand tightly. "I want to learn _everything_ about the piano - _please_ stay and teach me!" 

The good corner of Erik's mouth curved into a smile. "Madame," he addressed the schoolmistress, "I believe that, at this point, I have no choice but to accept your kind offer." He was, of course, heedless of how gravely he had just altered the course of his own fortune; he had not recognized the child, having paid little attention to her weeks before at the Opera. 

* 

Weeks slipped away as they tend to do. Estelle, delighted with her new musical tutor, began to exhibit improvements almost immediately; and Christine could scarce induce her young charge to speak one sentence that did not contain some exclaimed mention of the mysterious "Monsieur Rouen." 

"I will say, Estelle," Christine smiled one evening over dinner, "that perhaps it is all worth your speaking of him constantly. Your playing seems perfected by magic." 

"Oh, Christine," the young lady giggled. "You shouldn't be so skeptical - after all, _you_ were the one who used to tell me about the Angel of Music!" 

An awkward sensation flooded Christine's heart, which she tried to smother in her napkin. "Yes, dear, it seems you have found a veritable Angel in this M. Rouen." But her tone was flat, and Estelle, taking quiet stock of it, was careful not to talk of her beloved new teacher again that evening. She had hitherto not mentioned M. Rouen's mask, fearing that it might alarm her guardian. 

Christine herself tried to maintain a cheerful demeanor through the end of dinner, but excused herself to her room shortly thereafter. Her cheeks aching from forced smiles, she allowed solitude to coax tears from her tired eyes. She could hardly blame her dear Estelle for unwittingly inspiring sad memories of Erik, but neither could she prevent her own sorrow. Despite her many efforts in the weeks since their near meeting at the Opera, she had been unable to locate him; but neither had he come to her, and it gave her to know he did not want to see her. "All the better," she sighed beside her bedroom window, the moonlight spilling over her form painting her a sad angel. "What could I ever say to him, after Venice?" 

* 

Erik, quite to the contrary, found himself growing increasingly happier following his employment at Madame Blèdurt's academy. He secured a modest flat not far from the school and settled into a quiet existence, even purchased furniture and issued Nadir an open invitation for chess and sherry. As for his working hours, he tired almost immediately of all the other students under Mme. Blèdurt's roof; Estelle de Jardin alone held his attentions, his confidence in her potential whipping his old creative energies to fevered pitch. With her he would spend hours, while he would dismiss the other young ladies after a cursory twenty or thirty minutes; for him, the others were simply pale, ordinary daisies in comparison to Estelle's fiery tiger-lily talent. 

But musicality aside, Erik presently began to find himself endeared to young Estelle herself. The wide-eyed child seemed all at once younger and older than her fifteen years, and her solemn, dreamy expressions could lighten his mood even after the most dismal hours with his other plunking protégées. Her enthusiasm for the piano was, of course, refreshing and encouraging to him as a teacher; but her romantic disposition led her to be especially friendly towards him - she likely fancied him some wounded anti-hero from one of her beloved fairy stories. As foolish as the notion seemed to him, he found himself doting on her for it; and soon a gentle friendship began to develop between maestro and pupil. 

This relationship, when it initially came to Mme. Blèdurt's attention, did not bother her particularly; Estelle was clearly the most promising young musician in her charge and her improvement was a credit, not only to M. Rouen, but to herself. However, when she became aware that the two would often linger for hours in the school's _salon_ hammering away at the piano, she gradually became more and more irked. M. Rouen did not request a lofty salary, but for what she paid him he ought to at least divide his attentions equally amongst her pupils! 

Finally she could contain her indignation no further; she stationed a maid in the hall outside the music room and, as soon as Erik emerged from one of his lengthy sessions with Estelle, had him summoned him to her office. 

"Monsieur Rouen," she said, rising as he entered the room, "I have been meaning to speak to you about Estelle de Jardin." 

"Ah, yes, a charming pupil!" he replied enthusiastically, seating himself in the chair opposite her desk. "Her potential is incredible, Madame - I really must thank you for the opportunity of teaching her." 

" ... Yes," Madame responded, remaining on her feet. "But you see, Monsieur Rouen, Estelle is here to learn more than just music." 

"_Just _music?" Erik repeated, dropping from his tone the assumed cordiality he always used when addressing Mme. Blèdurt. Since their first meeting he was always careful to charm the schoolmistress, but today there was something in her manner that he did not like and he could not bring himself to feign cordiality. 

"I'm afraid so, sir," was Madame's reply. "As much as I am pleased at Estelle's progress at the piano, I am also concerned that it might be coming at the cost of the rest of her studies." Stony silence from Erik; she stumbled on, anxious to fill it. "And the other children, Monsieur - they could also benefit from your tutelage." 

"The other children," Erik retorted, rising again, "have not an ounce of musical ability among them." 

"But surely if you can make a prodigy improve, you can teach _something_ to the others," she protested, understandably surprised - she had never before seen this side of him. 

"I refuse to waste my time in such a fashion," he replied icily. 

"Well then, we have reached an _impasse_, monsieur." Madame Blèdurt folded her arms before her and jerked her chin just as coldly. "I refuse to employ a maestro for the private use of one pupil." 

Erik neatly sidestepped his chair and, placing his hands on its back, leaned in to make a soft and venomous reply. "Very well, Madame, then I shall make arrangements for private lessons directly with Estelle's guardian. And as for the rest of your students ..." He trailed off, making only that careless gesture with his hand. 

Mme. Blèdurt's haughtily set jaw dropped wide open. "You don't mean to resign?" She skirted the desk and paused a few mere feet from his awesome personage. "Please, Monsieur Rouen, I cannot lose you to another school. We can discuss a pay increase ..." 

He waved away her words. "Rest assured, Madame, that I shall seek employment with none of your competitors. Money is not at issue here; talent is. And since Estelle is the only worthy student I have encountered under your roof, then I shall make her my protégée without imposing on you further." Turning on his heel, he quit the room; from the doorway he threw one last remark over his shoulder. "I shall advise your secretary of my mailing-address, Mme. Blèdurt, and expect my severance within the week." 

* 

In the hallway, Erik met once again with Estelle, who had run upstairs after the end of their lesson to one of the schoolrooms to retrieve her cloak and books. To say they met is, of course, merely a turn of phrase; in reality, the child nearly bowled Erik over as she came rumbling down the stairs. "M. Rouen," she gasped, breathless from all her scampering about; "_escusez-moi,_ I am so dreadfully clumsy." 

Erik was struck with an idea. "No, _cheri_, it's quite all right. I am glad you are still here - I must speak with you." 

"Must you?" The young lady's face lit up at once; she was quite enamored with her maestro and the very thought of receiving his confidence was thrilling to her. 

"Yes," he smiled, savoring the sweetness of his regard for the little girl. "But it not good news, Estelle; I am no longer to teach here." 

"Oh, Monsieur!" Estelle cried, dropping all of her books into a heap on the floor. "That cannot be true - it would be _too_ horrid!" 

Chuckling under his breath, Erik stooped to collect the texts from the floorboards. Looking up into Estelle's wide, bespectacled eyes, he replied solemnly, "I'm afraid it is true. But," he intoned, allowing his eyes to sparkle up at her, "I have a plot by which we may continue our lessons." 

Her expression lightened at once, all her storm clouds dissipating with his words. "Have you?" she whispered fervently, reaching as if to accept the books he had picked up. 

But instead, he rose and offered her his arm. "I have," he said, "and if you will come and have tea with me at my flat, I shall tell you all about it." 

Had she been younger than her dignified fifteen years, Erik could tell that Estelle would have clapped her hands and twirled for happiness. As it was, her plump little cheeks turned a sweet shade of rose at her first-ever offer of a gentleman's arm. Erik himself thrilled at the touch of her little hand on his elbow, and nearly forgot to collect his own cloak from a stand in the corner of the foyer. 

Madame Blèdurt, having overheard and wondered to whom Erik was speaking in the hall, emerged just in time to see the two through the open front door. She stared incredulously as she watched him hand Estelle into a brougham and climb in after her. Although she had felt she was in the right when she reprimanded him, she could not help feeling a twinge - was it jealousy? - at seeing the obvious regard he held for the little girl. And though she prided herself in her private life for never having succumbed to any man's charms, she did feel a rather strong sense of regret at the loss of the elegant and mysteriously magnetic M. Rouen. 

* 

Erik chided himself as he reached for the doorknob - how foolish that a man of his age should feel so nervous that his hand trembled! But the fact remained that he had never before invited anyone but Nadir into his flat; and that his visitor should be a young lady was all the more disconcerting to him. Keeping his objective in mind, however, he ushered Estelle inside and presently had a pleasant tea set out in the parlor, with a fire burning cheerily in the grate. 

"Monsieur Rouen?" Estelle suddenly spoke up. "All of this is lovely - but you have barely said a word since we left the school! Won't you tell me about your plan?" 

Erik found himself suddenly embarrassed, and stared down into his teacup for a moment before answering. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle de Jardin," he replied frankly after his pause; "I'm afraid I'm a quiet man and not used to company." 

Estelle placed her teacup and saucer on the table and impetuously placed her little gloved hand atop Erik's, which lay on his knee. "I could feel that about you, Monsieur - but I'm so glad you asked me here, that we ..." But the child turned a sudden shade of pink, and trailed off. 

Erik, entranced by the little miss and her dramatic recitation, cocked his head. "Go on," he prompted gently. 

She twisted her hands in her lap, clearly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Monsieur ... I always let my imagination run away with me. I did not mean to be so forward ..." She blinked her eyes behind her spectacles, and Erik thought he could perceive a glint of tears. " ... but I would like for us to be friends." 

Erik rolled his head back and laughed. "My dear," he smiled, removing his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing at the tears of mirth that rolled down his good cheek, "yes, I do believe we already _are _friends. Now then," he chuckled, trying to even out his voice, "now then. May I pour you some more tea?" 

Estelle raised her face and smiled faintly. "Will you tell me the plan?" 

"Immediately thereafter," he laughed. So did she, and raised her teacup. 

Erik's "plan" was simply this: to continue as Estelle's piano teacher. But since he had left Madame Blèdurt's employ, this could only be accomplished in Estelle's own home. 

"I could come with you this very evening, and ask your guardian's permission. What do you think?" he asked the little girl, whose grave reply gave him immeasurable internal smiles. 

"I think that it could work," she said, "but I think perhaps _I_ should speak to her about it first - you see ..." Estelle placed her teacup down again and, planting one elbow on her knee, leaned forward on her hand to confide in Erik. " ... she's something like you, Monsieur - she's quiet and, well, sad I suppose. Since my papa died ..." Her voice faltered. "It was hard for her." 

"Hard for you too," he murmured, handing his handkerchief. "If we are to be friends, Estelle, you must call me 'Erik.'" 

With a small smile, Estelle both sniffled and nodded. "We never have company to the house now; I shall have to persuade her. Will you give me a few days to speak with her, and then come to see us?" 

"Of course," Erik replied, "it sounds an ideal proposal. But now," he said lightly, hoping to change the mood, "you must allow me to share my music with you, as you have shared yours with me." He rose from his chair and, lifting his violin from its case, began to play. He played for the smile to return to her lips and the dreamy cast to her eyes, and when he felt certain that she was no longer sad, he bundled her into a hired carriage and escorted her home. She waved to him from the front door of the modest house, and he made note of the address for his return in a few days' time. 

* 

Christine was puzzled, to say the very least, when Estelle told her how she had passed her afternoon. 

"But why has he left your school?" she asked her young charge; but Estelle, having been so caught up in the drama and romance of tea with her mysterious tutor, had failed to get all the details Christine requested. 

"He wanted to come and see you," Estelle replied, "but _I_ wanted to talk to you first, to tell you ..." But she stammered, as if not knowing what to say. 

"Tell me what?" Christine prompted, uneasy. The maternal instinct she had begun to develop since her guardianship of Estelle was tingling; she was unsure whether to give in to the worry that pricked at the edges of her consciousness, or to the sad sympathy she likewise felt coursing through her veins. She, too, had once been the protégée of a maestro from whom explanations were not always forthcoming; and she could see in Estelle's eyes the beginnings of an unconditional devotion that would transcend the absence of answers. 

Here she thought the similarity ended. But Estelle's next words sent a trembling chill down her spine. 

"He is ... not a _normal_ man," Estelle was explaining carefully. "I suppose that, to someone who didn't know him, he might even seem discomforting ..." She lifted her eyes imploringly to meet Christine's. "But he is a wonderful man, Christine, and a wonderful teacher, and I know that you will see that if only you will meet with him." 

Christine barely knew what to say. She was flooded with a hundred emotions she could hardly define, and it seemed that it was another voice that replied, 

"Very well, Estelle. Bring your maestro here and we shall negotiate your piano lessons." 

The usually somber child let loose one of the joyous outbursts that made Christine love her so; she flung her arms around her guardian and kissed her cheek impetuously. Through the embrace, Christine's mind swam. _And what will tomorrow bring,_ she wondered, _when I must come face-to-face with this shadow of my Erik who has enchanted my Estelle?_

* 

Shortly after noon a few days later, Erik descended from a hired cab, smoothed his jacket, and approached the door of the modest home of his promising pupil. The plump housekeeper that answered his knock seemed to want to examine his curious appearance - a natural, human response that he had come to expect - but good breeding or manners prevented her. "Please come in, Monsieur - Mademoiselle has been expecting you." 

_Mademoiselle, and not Madame?_ he mused to himself. _Interesting._

He was ushered through the foyer and down a hall to a paneled and carpeted study. "May I offer you anything, Monsieur, while you wait? Some tea, perhaps?" the housekeeper inquired. 

"Thank you, no," he replied with a small bow and smile, hoping such faint gestures would effectively transmit his gratitude. Though he had grown accustomed to walking about in the world, he was still very rarely treated with kindness. The housekeeper, touched by his warmth, returned his smile and left him to wait for Estelle's guardian. 

"Mademoiselle," she called softly into the library a moment later, where Christine was whiling away the afternoon with a book; "Monsieur Rouen has just arrived and is waiting in the study." 

"Laura!" Christine called after her, jumping to her feet and cracking the library door to peek her head out. Recalling Estelle's strange description of her tutor, she felt vaguely nervous at the prospect of finally meeting with him. "How did you find him?" 

The housekeeper deliberated a moment. "... Unusual," she finally replied; "But there is a gentleness beneath his odd appearance - I could tell from his voice." 

Christine smiled, relieved. "Thank you, Laura. I shall go to him presently." Marking her place in her book, she left the library; her footfalls echoed crazily on the hardwood floor of the empty hallway. A large mirror hung on the wall near the study door and she paused there for a moment, smoothing her appearance before taking a deep breath and opening the study door. 

A tall and broad-shouldered gentleman stood at the window opposite, his back to Christine as she entered the room. His hair was thick and dark with a honey-toned sheen and was impeccably smoothed over his scalp despite the hat that Christine could see resting on a chair nearby. The dark suit he wore was well-made and fitted, and she found herself having to put down the urge to blush - how long had it been since she had been alone in the company of an attractive man? 

But that thought was driven from her mind when she noticed the cloak neatly folded beneath the hat. Fashioned from a fine wool - merino or cashmere, perhaps - it set her heart to pounding crazily. _Stop this foolish thinking_, she chided herself. _There can be more than one man of good taste who prefers a cloak to a coat._ Smoothing her voice, she greeted him. "Monsieur Rouen." 

Erik's keen hearing had once memorized the timbre of a woman's voice, a woman's voice that had nearly been his undoing. Though he had long ago folded the memory of that sound and packed it gently in the depths of his mind, there would never be any mistaking it - it was as closely tied to his existence as the soft rhythm of the heart that had loved her. But the incredibility of it! Turning swiftly on his heel, he found himself gazing at her back as she closed the study door. And he reveled in that one moment where she was turned away - knowing some unpleasantness would presently ensue, he seized that opportunity to behold her before she beheld him, to treasure the soft cascade of hair down her back, the smooth curve of her elbow in the sleeve that was fitted so well to her forearm ... Oh, he had seen her and trembled at the Opera, but that was nothing to standing so close to her, to breathing in air that was faintly perfumed by her own scent, to spending one peaceful moment in her company where she thought of him only as a normal man and he was free to love her. 

But that moment which was so blissful and precious to him could not last. The latch of the study door clicked, and she turned, and their eyes locked in a moment whose impact was measurable only in comparison to earthquakes. 

Without speaking, they each saw the whole of the situation in complete clarity; hindsight emphasized the small coincidences, the tiny hints that they had either not seen or chosen to ignore. And as they stood as still as statues, each grappled with a fresh flow of pain and guilt and regret that they had each thought they had felt for the last time years ago. 

Finally, Christine broke the crystal-shard-silence. "Erik." 

"Christine," he replied as gently as he could over his warring soul; "please believe that, had I known, I would never have come." 

"Do you hate to see me so?" she responded, suppressed tears cracking her tone to a rough edge. 

Sorry immediately for his words and their misunderstanding, he put up his palms. "Only to disturb you," he said softly; "You have a good, peaceful life here and my trespass is clearly wrong. I am sorry - I shall go." 

As he retrieved his hat and cloak, Christine felt as if she would tear in two inside from holding back her tears. How long she had wished for just one more audience with him - and now she had been given that chance, and was blundering it. 

He was donning his hat and stepping towards the door - how _could_ she just let him walk away again? This time there would surely be no hope of a future meeting ... 

Her voice seemed to speak without her. "And what about Estelle?" 

Erik froze. Only moments before he had thought there could be nothing worse than this sorrow, standing at the edge of a distance between him and his beloved that he knew could never be bridged. But with one sentence came the realization that increased the pain tenfold: not only was it Christine he would be leaving as he quitted the room, but Estelle as well would be forevermore lost to him. He was crippled - had his legs been suddenly lopped off there could not have been a more immobilizing pain. 

"I don't know," he choked, tears gathering in his eyes despite his attempts to blink them back. 

The tension of the moment - her own anger at herself - to hear him sound so like he had in Venice made Christine frantic, and without meaning to she lashed out. "Of course you do," she cried, "you'll do just what you always do when the choice is difficult - you'll turn away, you'll disappear!" Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she threw the study door open wide. "Don't let me stop you - go on, leave her without a word! Break her heart as you broke mine!" 

Erik could not bear it - the memories, the accusations. The look he fixed her with was rife with intense emotion, intense enough to free his frozen limbs and propel him from the room and from the house and a good distance down the road before he slowed his pace to hail a cab. Where he would go he had no idea; Europe, as kind as it had once been to his broken heart, could never heal a wound such as this. 

Christine herself sank to the carpet beside the open study door; he had flown past and, for the briefest of moments, had been the closest to her that he had been since their aborted embrace in Venice. How long she knelt there she did not know, but when suddenly the front door slammed and Estelle stood over her with an expression of concern, the dam within her broke; she succumbed to hysterics, and it took Estelle and Laura's combined efforts to carry her to bed. 

* 

Late that evening, long after Christine believed that she was the only soul still awake in the house, a soft knock preceded Estelle's entrance into her bedroom. 

"I thought you had gone to bed," Christine said from her rocking chair, too weak in spirit to protest Estelle's breaking her bedtime, or not knocking before entering the room. 

"Christine," Estelle said, trying but failing to keep reproach and disappointment out of her somber voice, "Laura told me that Erik came to call today." 

Christine bit her lower lip but said nothing. 

"I don't understand," Estelle whispered, unable to keep her voice from trembling any longer. She stepped closer to Christine's chair, stood over her with an expression of supreme sorrow. "I _told_ you he was different from other people ..." 

"That isn't it, Estelle," Christine protested with all the energy she could muster - which was not much, since her reply sounded more like a whine than an emphatic interruption. 

"What happened this afternoon?" the young lady demanded, completing the reversal of their roles - Christine was clearly the child now, Estelle the mature adult. 

But Christine was indignant. "Don't speak to me that way, Estelle." 

"I deserve to know," she persisted. "I helped to carry you up the stairs." 

"Watch your tongue," Christine snapped. 

Estelle stared at her for a moment, clearly stung. When she spoke again, her tone was wounded. "You're not yourself, Christine. We've never kept secrets from each other." Christine turned her face away, rested her cheek against her shoulder. Estelle bristled and spoke the first angry words Christine had ever heard escape her lips. "What did you do to drive him away?" 

She snapped back to face her surrogate child. "Don't say that, Estelle - I didn't ..." 

Estelle was weeping openly now, and sank to her knees at Christine's feet. "Why won't you let me have him - he made me _happy_, didn't you see that? For the first time since Papa died I felt ..." But sobs choked her voice, and Christine sprang from her chair to throw her arms around the girl. 

"Oh, Estelle, _mon ange_, don't cry ... please don't cry ... I cannot bear to see you sad ..." Christine was weeping herself now, and the two entangled women sank to the floor, rocking in their sorrow. "I never wanted to hurt you, my beloved ... please don't cry ..." 

"Then let him teach me!" Estelle wailed. "Don't let the mask prejudice you, Christine - _please_ look past it and trust me! He is good, and kind, and he has helped me so much already ..." 

Christine tried to speak, but her voice broke under the weight of the secret she now knew she could not tell her beloved child. She simply hugged Estelle and sobbed into her shoulder; realizing what she must do. She could not break Estelle's heart, and her own could not be broken any further. 

A long time later, when all their tears had been spent, they still knelt together in a heap on the floor. Christine smoothed Estelle's hair, which had gone all wild in their exchange, back from her forehead. "Forgive me, darling - I will try to make it right again." 

Estelle looked like a little girl again as she turned her tearstained face upwards. "You will go and speak to him?" 

Christine nodded and hugged her tighter, biting back a fresh wave of tears. "I love you, Estelle," she whispered fiercely into her hair. 

* 

Erik's hired hansom had taken him as far as the contents of his pockets would carry him; he had immediately decided against going to Nadir's, but instead instructed the cabby, "Just drive." When his funds were depleted he left the cab quietly, and found himself several hours' walk from his flat. He used those hours to turn over his options in his mind; when he finally arrived home, he fell into bed completely clothed, and fitfully slept off his emotional and physical exhaustion. 

When he finally woke, the next day was well underway; noontime found him surrounded by trunks and traveling cases. A knock at his door made him suppose his landlord had received the note he had sent earlier, informing him of his intention to depart Paris for a time and requesting a meeting to discuss the payment of several months' advance rent. He opened to Christine, who was nervously turning over the scrap of paper upon which Estelle had written the address of Erik's flat. 

"Erik," she said hurriedly, as though she expected him to slam the door in her face,"I am sorry to come here uninvited, but I must speak with you." 

He stood silently for a moment, shocked and wondering if his unstable state might be causing hallucinations. 

Christine tipped her head and peered into his face. "Erik?" 

Her voice again - could she be real, really standing at his doorstep? He shook himself; he could not keep her standing there. A difficult choice lay before him ... but his voice, of its own volition, made it for him. "I'm sorry," he stammered; "come in." 

Christine had come, like Orpheus, to the very gate of Hades; she had expected a bitter battle with Cerberus, or to at the very least to be unceremoniously turned away. Yet here was the Dark Prince himself admitting her to his sanctum. She drifted through the doorway as vaguely as a shade into that underworld, hardly knowing what to expect. When she found herself in a finely furnished flat, one which might be inhabited by any person of comfortable means, she felt oddly disoriented. But realizing the old mindset into which she was slipping, she reprimanded herself silently and forced her vision to broaden. What she noticed then was the various baggage scattered about the room. 

"You are not ... leaving?" she asked, cautiously turning to face him. 

He cleared his throat. "I had considered it, on an old friend's advice." 

She dropped her gaze to inspect the tips of her shoes emerging from beneath her dark dress. Erik noticed that she was pale and her eyes lacked their usual clarity. How had _she_ spent the previous night? 

"I'm sorry, Erik" she said suddenly, her voice soft but strong beneath that softness. He watched in wonder as she seemed to gather poise; she lifted her chin and continued, "The things I said to you yesterday were cruel and uncalled for, and I offer you my humblest apology." 

He was struck, not only by her words, but by their undeniable ring of sincerity. His surprise made his voice easy. "What brought this on?" he asked gently. 

Christine blinked quickly several times, willing her eyes not to well. "Estelle," she replied after a pause. "The thought of losing your lessons upset her so, and I could not bear to allow my selfishness be the cause of her tears. I need you to forgive me, Erik - and to come and teach her the piano, as you wanted to before I received you with such rudeness." 

A moment passed where he simply watched her, waiting for the mirage of her to disappear. He could barely stand to believe himself awake - it seemed too much to believe, that she should suddenly come to him, apologetic, with the extended olive branch. But when she did not waver or dissolve into mist, he took a deep breath. "Christine," he said frankly, "we both know how things have happened between us ..." 

"I know," Christine interrupted, "but..." 

He held up one hand. "Please," he said softly, "let me speak. These meetings - they are distressing to us both, and we both know that." Christine bowed her head, silently assenting. "Can you really _want_ to see me, in your own home no less, under the pretext of piano lessons for a child who is not even yours?" 

Christine jerked her chin up, her eyes suddenly lively again. "She _is_ mine," she replied intensely, "and I love her as dearly as any mother loved any child. Do not question that, Erik - do not believe me so incapable of devotion." It was his turn to cast his gaze downward; but he looked up again a moment later, for he had felt her take a step nearer to him. 

"I will do anything to make her happy, Erik; swallowing my pride and admitting my wrongs is a small price to pay for that." Her features were smooth and resolute now, and she drew still nearer, her mien conciliatory. "Please, Erik. It must be worth the trouble if you were willing to leave her school and tutor her privately." 

"I left the school _because _I wanted to tutor her privately," he replied; she looked at him questioningly and he elaborated, "The headmistress actually had the nerve to _reprimand_ me for spending more time with Estelle than with the other pupils. She failed to acknowledge that the other pupils were talentless lumps." Christine smiled and reveled for a moment in a normal conversation with Erik. 

"Then you must think she has potential," she prompted. 

"She is gifted," he answered; "and she will go far with training." 

"Then train her," Christine implored quietly. He sighed, and she could sense his resistance weakening. "Please, Erik - she will be heartbroken if you refuse." 

The thought of dear Estelle weeping! It was too much to be borne ... and this change in Christine was disconcerting but persuasive. If she could bring herself to come to him as she had, could he not make a similar gesture? And he recalled her words in Venice, her insistence that she had always loved him ... he derailed this train of thought, knowing how dangerous it could be to allow himself to hope. Better to close that door soundly, and think of Estelle - it was not a lie, exactly. He wanted so much to teach her, to see the musician she would become ... 

"Very well," he said gently. 

Christine's eyes went wide. "You will teach her?" she breathed. 

"I will teach her," he echoed, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands before her. "You shall not regret it - and I shall make it worth your while." 

"Christine," he demurred, "You know I cannot accept your money." 

"It is not mine, though - it was left by her father for her education. And you will teach her more than that pompous Madame Blèdurt ever will," she chuckled. Erik could not help but join her. "Come then; are we agreed?" Before she realized what she was doing, she extended her hand. 

A brief tension descended, where Christine wondered whether he would accept her offered palm, and Erik wondered if he had the courage to touch her. But the heavens did not part - the ground beneath their feet did not rend - and they clasped hands. 

For a moment Christine was without words, and when the contact ended she found herself studying the bare floorboards that protruded from beneath his rich Persian rug. But, catching this foolish display of coyness, she forced her chin upwards and met his eyes. "Thank you, Erik," she said simply, and with her expression tried to betray the true depth of her gratitude. She _was_ thankful that he could forgive her enough to agree to teach Estelle - it meant so much to the child. She told herself she could admit how much it meant to _her _once she was safely out of his presence. 

He watched her turn and move towards the door and he felt like a child, not knowing how to swim and yet suddenly finding himself thrown into a pond. "Christine," he managed as her hand lit on the doorknob, "perhaps you and ..." He trailed off, wanting but not wanting to pair himself with her even in words. " ... perhaps we can be friends again." 

She looked at him over her shoulder, frantic to be away from him before her resolve crumbled and she fell to his feet to beg for his love, and yet unable to resist this offer - this indication that he, too, had sorrowed and suffered during their separation. _He must still care for me ... on some level - and perhaps he can be brought ..._ No, she must stop these thoughts; but the unchanged beauty of his voice transformed his words to manna from the very hands of God. "Yes," she whispered, her voice dry and strained, "I would like that." 

Her emotion could not be overlooked and Erik paced his floor into the wee hours of that morning, his mind strolling through sudden and intoxicating landscapes of hope. Once safely home again, and the news related to the now-ecstatic Estelle, Christine pled a headache and retreated to her bedchamber, where she sat rocking in her chair all night with tears of abject misery slipping down her cheeks. He could be brought to teach music to her adopted daughter, true; but experience had shown her he could not be brought to love her. 

* 

At first, Erik came once a week; he was loath to press his presence upon Christine, yet he wanted to test the waters. He found them friendly but at the same time distant, as though she was holding him at arms' length. Still, Estelle saw only pleasantness pass between them, though there were no hints given as to the history that lay concealed between the two. 

Christine especially was very concerned with keeping the past a secret from Estelle. "Forgive me if I seem cool," she whispered frantically to Erik one afternoon when the young musician was out of earshot; "I don't want her to know ..." But she trailed off and looked away, wishing sadly that there were no need for silence. There were so many things she wanted to say to Estelle ... so many more she wished she could make known to Erik ... 

She raised her eyes to his and, for one brief and tortured moment, could have sworn he already knew. Luckily, Estelle returned and once again commandeered his attention. 

Little could she perceive that she did not really hold her tutor's undivided attention as she played or chattered on. His ear was hers, of course; but his eyes were ever fixed on Christine - provided that hers were fixed elsewhere. That she was immersed in some emotional turmoil was obvious to him; but whether that turmoil provided him with a true right to hope, he feared to guess. 

He increased his visits to twice a week, and they came to be friendly even in Estelle's company; the young lady, once so distraught over the prospect of them disliking each other, seemed to find no faults with the world now that her beloved guardian and her beloved teacher had been brought to like one another. Erik and Estelle's lessons often ended with Christine serving tea for three in the drawing room; the little musician would chatter vivaciously about her schoolmates, the books Erik brought her to read, the odd things she was being taught at Madame Blèdurt's. She never noticed that the grown-ups who seemed to hang on her every word were in reality trapped in their own silent cycles of emotion. Christine forced a smile to her lips despite the misery that grew each day with the growing of her friendship with Erik - _friendship_, when she ached with all her heart to hear once more the words of love she had so flippantly discarded all those years ago; but she bore it, for Estelle's sake, and for his. He seemed so happy sitting at tea with them, listening to Estelle's fantastic daydreams - and he was, but it was not his pupil that brought him the purest moments of happiness while in the de Jardin home. It was, oddly enough, that strange expression in Christine's face: her strangled smile whose meaning seemed lost on Estelle but to him so clearly denoted her inner struggle. He wondered if she remembered the things she had said to him in Venice as clearly as he did: he had tried to pretend that he had forgotten them, but sitting in the parlour with her as he did now tore to ribbons all these foolish fantasies. Her words then were seared upon his memory, and the light she radiated illuminated all their scars. He wondered that she could not see them plainly. 

He waited several weeks before finally confiding in Nadir about his new-found situation. It came out in degrees - first he admitted to having left the school; later he confessed he had taken on a private pupil of some talent. Finally, goaded by Nadir's persistent questions and his own guilt at concealing such a secret from such an old friend, he told all. 

The daroga, who never lost his composure, dropped his cut-glass tumbler to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces. 

"God in Heaven, Nadir," Erik chided him humorously, dropping to one knee to mop up the mess. "Don't you think that was a bit dramatic?" 

"Erik!" Nadir knelt before him and seized him by both shoulders. Giving him a hard shake, he cried, "How can you tell me, so matter-of-factly, that you have entered the employ of Christine Daaé?" 

With a shrug, he replied, "Because it is a simple matter of fact." 

"Did you seek her out after our night at the Opera? Erik, you promised me ..." 

"I assure you, Nadir," he interrupted his agitated friend, "that it was an utter coincidence. I began working with the child while I was still working for that dreadful headmistress - she was the star pupil there. When I left the school, I wanted to continue with Estelle - so I sought an audience with her guardian, and found myself standing face-to-face with Christine." 

It took Nadir several days to come to terms with the situation; he was like a man in a trance. But finally, as he began to accept the workings of fate, he also began to notice a change in his friend. At first he believed it was just his own eyes playing tricks on him, that he was seeing Erik differently because of his bizarre revelation. But soon he realized he was not mistaken; there was something different. It was as if a seedling of hope had been planted in his friend's mind - and watching it sprout filled Nadir with the deepest of foreboding. 

"Erik, I do believe that it is more than child that draws you there," he said carefully one afternoon over chess. 

Erik's eyes moved over the board, making no indication that Nadir's remark had make any impression upon him. His right hand drifted to his chin, the index finger hovering near his lips as he considered his next move. 

"Erik?" Nadir leaned closer, thinking his friend had not heard him. 

In one swift motion, Erik slew Nadir's queen with a well-moved bishop. "Check," he said quietly, removing the captured piece from the board. "Your thinking, Nadir, is as faulty as your strategy." 

Cross at the loss of the useful piece, Nadir mulled over the board for a moment. "You are impossible, Erik - toying with me like this. Here, I concede." 

"No," he protested, "you cannot give up - bad form! You must go forward with the situation you have visited upon yourself." When Nadir's frowning countenance did not change, he sighed. "Block me with your knight, and tell me why you said that." 

Grudgingly, Nadir made the move that he had not noticed before Erik pointed it out. "Do you really need me to tell you, Erik? It is Christine Daaé, for the love of Allah! And after the way you behaved at the Opera, what else am I to think?" 

Erik was quiet again, thinking out another move. Once he had made it, he replied softly, "Old adversaries can become friends, Nadir. Look at us together." 

"We are hardly comparable to you and Mademoiselle Daaé, Erik, and you know it." 

"Do I?" he asked wryly. With a merry glint to his eye, he asked, "Would you care to be trained to be a great diva, Nadir? I am sure it could be accomplished ..." 

"Your humor is in poor taste," Nadir snapped. 

"And your accusation is without basis," Erik replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Do you still not trust me, old friend?" 

It always pained Nadir when Erik lobbed this comment his way - and unfortunately, because Nadir could tend to be a bit oppressive and nosy in his friendship, this happened from time to time. He _did_ trust Erik, with his life in fact; but when it came to Christine Daaé, he could not shake a feeling of uneasiness. It seemed to him that there was too much history between them for a simple friendship to result; some quagmire must lurk beneath the surface, waiting to subsume his friend. And he was concerned for Erik, knowing how fragile his heart could be despite his impermeable exterior façade. 

And recalling the conversation he had had with Christine at the Opera, about which he had never told his friend, Nadir realized exactly where it was his skepticism lay. "I _do_ trust you, Erik," he replied softly. "But Mademoiselle Daaé ..." 

Erik was surprised with his own indignation at these words. He had not realized the extent to which Christine had re-entered his heart; but to hear her accused of anything gave rise to a protective urge. "What has Christine done to make you mistrust her?" 

"What has she done?" Nadir cried. "She _only _wounded you so deeply that you left the country for years! She _only_ hurt you more profoundly than I knew a woman could hurt a man! Erik, I was afraid for you all those years - did you know that? I wrote you so often, all those letters that I'm sure brought you untold annoyance since you answered them so infrequently, so you would still feel some connection to this world. I worried that, in your despair and heartbreak, you might feel so detached from human love that you might simply give up, disappear - or kill yourself!" Erik was staring at Nadir, having never seen him so agitated - or candid about his own feelings. Nadir himself leaned over the chess table. "Do not rebuke me for caring for you, Erik. I have been your friend - what, these thirty years at least? - and I cannot sit idly by and watch you reconcile with a woman who might as well have been your murderess. Not without having something to say about it - I'm sorry, Erik, but I do not trust her." 

"Nadir," Erik breathed, his voice betraying wonder at this new side of the daroga. "I had no idea you felt so strongly about this. I am truly blessed to have you as my friend, and I appreciate your concern - but I know my own limits, and I know my own capacity for forgiveness. It _is_ hard for me to see her, to remember ..." He passed a hand across the good side of his forehead. "...to remember everything. But believe me, Nadir - it grows less every day. I loved her deeply, true - and I cannot dismiss that. All those years ago I could not have her in any estimation. But things have changed - I am different, I have learned to let her go - and she is willing to have me teach her child, and take tea in her parlour. I am content, Nadir, I swear it." He felt dizzy speaking this way. 

Nadir was clearly not convinced. "But what of her?" he asked, forgetting himself in his state of agitation. "Is _she_ content with this arrangement? Can't you see, Erik? She came to you in Venice - you told me long before we ever saw her at the Opera - you told me yourself that she wanted you to come back to her, to rescue her from whatever tragedy she fancied herself the prisoner of. She is manipulating you, Erik - she has lost two rich men, she is disillusioned with the world, and she wants you back again to play her Dark Angel, her mysterious protector. And she will use whatever means she must." 

Erik gaped. "Nadir, where on earth did you get such a ridiculous idea?" 

Throwing up his hands in exasperation with his own inability to keep a secret, Nadir resigned himself to telling Erik the truth. "I spoke to her that night at the Opera, Erik. I am sorry I kept it from you, but I did not think it wise to tell you - and when she attempted to persuade even _me _that she had changed, that she truly loved you, my mind was made up." 

In a movement so sudden it startled the daroga, Erik reached across the table and clasped his wrist. "What are you telling me, Nadir? What did she say to you?" 

Realizing that all his ravings had had quite the opposite of their desired effect, Nadir surrendered to a sensation of resignation. This was, after all, far bigger than himself; he alone could not stop whatever fate was to befall his friend at the hands of Christine Daaé, and Erik was too stubborn for him to presume to offer advice. With a sigh, he related every detail of his meeting with Christine at the Opera. 

Erik sat quietly, listening patiently to the daroga's story, calm in the knowledge that Nadir's concern for him had brought him to keep it a secret for so long. But his calm could not be maintained as he heard what Christine had said that night; he felt as though he were plummeting headlong into the abyss of the unknown, the suspicions he had barely dared to have so suddenly and frighteningly confirmed. It had been nearly four years now since he and Christine had clashed in Venice ... if her feelings were unchanged, could he dare to doubt their sincerity? 

As Erik took his leave that evening, he placed a light hand on Nadir's shoulder. "I will take care," he said softly, "I promise you ... and I beg you, Nadir - it all happened years ago. We were both, in our own ways, children. Mistakes were made. But do not hold it against her." 

Nadir clasped his friend's hand tightly. Silently, he resolved to interfere no more, no matter how much it pained him; but his commitment to Erik's safety was unshaken, and he said simply, "My door is open to you, my friend. Remember that." 

As for Erik himself, a will of iron repressed his joy until he was hidden within the confines of a hansom; only then did he allow his heart to pound. _Can she have changed so much ... as to really care for me?_ he mused, seemingly insensible to the jolting of the carriage over the cobblestones. 

* 

More time passed, though it did not go quickly for Christine. With each visit Erik made to her home she became more and more miserable, and she felt like an evergreen tree under the weight of a heavy snowfall: soon it could be borne no more, and she would snap. Estelle was improving at an incredible rate - Erik said that soon she would be ready to perform at recitals, or to audition for a musical conservatory if she wished to continue her studies. Christine could barely contain her tears that evening; if Estelle were to go away, what inducement would he have to come to her ever again? There was no denying that her feelings for him were undiminished; and she was convinced now that he knew of it, and, as he had told her in Venice, could not reciprocate her love. She longed to catch a glance, a turn of his voice, anything that would indicate he returned her affection. Nothing came. 

"Why should he?" she wept into her embroidered counterpane. "He told me in Venice..." She felt she would die - if he did not love her, if all he could offer her was friendship, or if he were to stop coming. With or without him, she would die. 

Erik's sensibilities too had been heightened since his conversation with Nadir; and he was especially careful now in his interactions with Christine. He needed to examine her behavior, to determine whether he could possibly be right in thinking that the love she had professed in Venice was still alive in her heart. It took some time - he could scarcely trust himself - but in the end, her wan smiles, the sad note to her voice, the way he could feel her eyes imploring him when his back was turned convinced him where he thought he could never be convinced. 

That afternoon he packed all his trunks before leaving his flat for Estelle's lesson - a pretext, really, for the confession he planned to make once more to Christine. If she rejected him he would simply disappear and never return to Paris again; it would be easy enough to accomplish, and Nadir would just have to learn to enjoy traveling to Stockholm to see him. 

* 

It was raining when he set out, but Erik chose to walk the short distance to the de Jardin home - the cool air jolted his senses, and he needed the time to think. What could he ever say - how could he re-begin a conversation that had twice been so painfully cut short? The first time it had been at her wish, true; but his had been perhaps the crueler insistence, based in bitterness and grudge. Could a peace offering make any difference, so many years afterwards? And what could possibly be an acceptable gift? 

The kitten was grey and white, and its huge amber eyes regarded Erik solemnly from beneath his cloak. He had purchased it days ago from a poor child on the street, paying far more than the animal was worth to ease the little one's obvious hunger. Having meant it as a gift for Estelle, he had been unable to think of an excuse to present it to her. But with the nearing of her sixteenth birthday, he had tucked it under his arm as he left his flat. 

But wasn't it a dreadfully foolish undertaking? Could such a mundane gesture really endear him to Christine in the way that he was hoping? Wasn't it just all just rubbish? He had tented the material over the little beast, to shield it from the rain. "What am I thinking?" he asked the kitten softly, but it answered only with a small mew. Reaching his deft fingers beneath the cloak, he stroked the creature's little face; it purred loudly and cuddled closer into the crook of his arm. 

"Precious," he found himself murmuring. A normal man might bring such a gift to the daughter of the woman he hoped to court ... He sighed, knowing in his heart exactly what it was he had been thinking. And he was sure the kitten had known the answer too. 

The rain streamed down through the folds of Erik's cloak as he parted it and gazed down at the kitten again. "Wish us luck," he whispered to it, trailing his fingers once more along its little upturned face. 

* 

Erik drew open the front door of Christine's house tentatively. Someone, either the housekeeper Laura or Christine herself, was usually there to admit him; but today his knock brought no response and the rain was coming down furiously, so he permitted himself the transgression of crossing Christine's threshold without an invitation. 

Once inside, he drew aside his cloak to check on his tiny passenger. "And are you all well and dry, my little friend?" he asked softly. 

"Erik? Who on earth are you talking to?" 

Christine's voice, faintly tinted with concern, still managed to startle him. "Christine ..." he fairly stammered; "I ... had thought I was alone." 

He was attempting to conceal something beneath his cloak, and Christine was determined to solve the mystery. "Here, let me take that," she said, moving towards him with her hands outstretched. "You are running rivers on my floor." 

He could tell her interest was not in his wet wrap, but rather in what was hidden beneath it. _Still the inquisitive child! _he found himself thinking before he could check it. 

"Forgive me," he said as he let the cloak part. "I should have asked you first ..." 

Christine's face went bright with pleased astonishment. "Oh, how _lovely_," she cried, gently taking the kitten into her arms and leaving Erik to hold his own wet cloak. The little animal liked her instantly, and began to purr as she caressed it and touched its pink nose with her own. "And what were _you_ doing hiding beneath Erik's cloak?" she asked it in that loving, deliberate voice we usually reserve for small children. 

"I brought him for Estelle," Erik replied, forcing his voice steady even though he was distracted by the sight of his beloved cradling the adorable bit of fluff. "I hope you don't mind, I completely forgot to consult you ..." 

"No, no, it's perfectly fine," Christine smiled, already in love with the animal herself. She returned him to Erik's arms, one tiny butterfly beating its wings in her heart - _Erik truly loves my little Estelle._ As soon as she caught the thought, however, she reprimanded herself; he might love the child without loving her as well. 

"You simply must give him to her right away," she forced herself to say cheerfully. "I cannot wait to see her face!" With that, she hurried to call Estelle to the foyer. 

* 

Perhaps an hour later, Erik called an end to the rather half-hearted lesson that was transpiring in the music room. 

"Very well done, Mademoiselle de Jardin. But I can see your heart is elsewhere today ..." He graced her with one of his rare smiles as she turned an inquisitive look his way. "I am sure your new kitten is restless to be played with." Estelle started to demur, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to be distracted during one of Erik's precious lessons, but he closed the music book. "Go," he said softly, "we can continue next time." The absent-minded pupil needed no further encouragement; she fairly flew from the piano stool and, gathering the kitten into her arms, dashed to her room with the precious cargo. 

Christine, who was sitting quietly by, looked up from her sewing to smile lovingly at Estelle's departure. Despite Estelle's usual seriousness, during her joyous outbursts her sash still flapped, along with that loose cascade of brown curls to which her childhood braids had given way. Her little girl was growing up ... but Christine's smile disappeared as she realized that she was now alone with Erik. Bending back over her needle, she hoped frantically that, because her profile was hidden by the wings of her armchair, he had forgotten her presence. 

But he had not; it was, in fact, why he had sent Estelle from the room. Finding himself alone with her again after all these years was arresting, and every nerve in his body tingled. The old urge to flee welled beneath his sternum, but he put it down; his trunks _were_ packed, but - the very _inconvenience _of it all! He did not wish to leave Paris, and he suspected she would not have him go. _But how to find out_? Finally, he resolved to try their ancient language, the tie between them that neither time nor distance had been able to destroy. 

Having a care not to crease his trousers, he took Estelle's place at the piano and began to play, his fingers coaxing soothing tones from the keys. He did not speak or turn towards Christine, but in a few moments he sensed her relax. Soon he heard her embroidery hoop slip unheeded to the floorboards. 

His words were unexpected. "Christine - will you sing for me?" 

She caught her breath, her nervousness returning. "What?" she stammered. 

"Sing for me," he repeated, his tone encouraging, enticing. 

Rising, she allowed herself to drift towards the piano; but when she reached it, and he raised his eyes to burn into hers, her resolve crumbled. "I can't." 

"You're only out of practice," he replied lightly, and his fingers changed their tune to one of the simple old vocal exercises. "You remember ..." 

"Erik, please," she interrupted him suddenly; his fingers paused and he looked at her questioningly. She looked down at her hands, folded them weakly before her. "I have lost the voice of the Angel of Music." 

He rose and closed the key cover. Realizing that a music lesson was too reminiscent of the old manipulation, he moved to a chair near her sewing table. "But you have been Estelle's Angel of Music." She shook her head bashfully; but he insisted, sliding one hand over the shiny surface of the piano wood. "You began her on her road, after all." 

His praise warmed her, and she returned to sit in the chair near him. Taking up her sewing again, she tried to form a reply. "It is all your teaching that has made her playing good ..." She trailed off; too many thoughts, too many feelings rushed in her mind. A silence descended in which she made several very poor stitches, her fingers working sullenly under his watchful gaze. 

Finally he spoke again. "She is a lovely child." Casting for something to say to ease the tension, he said, "You have done so well by her." 

"I could not do otherwise," she replied, relieved at the benign and easy-for-her subject of Estelle. "We are as close to family as each of us has now." 

"Nadir told me she has a mother," he prompted quietly. 

Christine set her lips. "A selfish, spoiled woman," she retorted. "She has never been a mother to Estelle; _I _have been the nearest thing since she was seven years old." 

"I can tell you love the child," he reassured her. 

"With all my heart," she answered fiercely. 

The devotion warmed his soul, and he cautiously allowed affection for this new committed Christine to stir in his heart. "Where is she now - the mother ..." 

Sighing, she put down her sewing. "Married to Raoul." 

He fairly gawked. "_What_?" 

Looking at him, she found herself unable to suppress a laugh. "It _is_ ridiculous, isn't it?" She smiled wistfully. "But she will do quite well for him - she is beautiful, cruel and a driven socialite." 

He could not manage a reply. "I ... forgive me, but I am shocked." 

"Imagine _my_ reaction when I found them together," she replied wryly. 

"You did?" 

"While she and Gerome ... Monsieur de Jardin ... were still married." 

The picture began to focus, and a new and terrible thought occurred to him. _This man left her all his money ... this man she calls 'Gerome' ..._ He steadied his voice. "So that was the cause of their estrangement." 

"Monsieur de Jardin was furious." 

"I see ... but you stayed on afterwards ... to help with the child?" 

Christine dipped her head. "I did not have anywhere else to go. And besides, Estelle was too dear to me by then to even think of leaving." 

"And her father ..." 

A pause. Christine had heard this insinuation before, of course; it had been Babette de Jardin's favorite battle cry, and she had learned to steel her heart to it. But she had never thought that Erik might make it ... She flushed from shame and leaned towards him. "Please, Erik, you mustn't think that. It never was _that way_ ... Gerome did ask me once, but I could not consent. I did not care for _him_, only for his daughter ... so I stayed with _her_, and he was a friend to me, and when he died he left me the money for both of our comforts. This," she gestured distractedly to her fine surroundings, clearly upset, "this is no mistress' pension, I swear to you." 

The fierceness of her reaction took him by surprise; he leaned in, too, sympathetically. "Someone has accused you of that?" 

"His wife," she replied feverishly, swept up in her emotion, "but it was never true. He did _try_ to make me love him ... he wanted me as his wife, and as Estelle's mother; but he always knew I could not." She raised her eyes to meet Erik's. "He knew I could not, because when he asked me I told him that my heart belonged only to you." 

The fervor of that moment surprised them both into silence. Finally she pressed her hands to her face and murmured through them, "Forgive me, Erik - I know it is wrong of me. Please, go if you think you must; I will think of something to tell Estelle." 

But he reached out and took one of her hands from her face, caressed the back of it with his thumb. Her inadvertent confession had supplied him with all the boldness he needed. "Why would I go?" 

She blanched. "Because of what you said in Venice ... I am so sorry, Erik. I will never say it again; please say you will stay on as Estelle's teacher. Your friendship means so much ... to both of us." 

"But Venice was nearly four years ago, Christine. I am sorry for how I behaved then - I was striking out blindly. I was angry with myself for loving you still, when I told myself I had forgotten you." How easily the words slipped out ... 

... But she did not seem to hear them! "No, you had every right to be angry with me; I treated you so meanly. I am so ashamed to think of my selfishness ... of how I thought only of myself and how it hurt you ..." Tears began to spill from her beautiful eyes. 

He rose and drew her with him; he touched his free fingers lightly to her cheek. "This cannot be Christine," he whispered, amazed and in love with her. "You have her face and her eyes - but these are not her tears." 

"No, Erik," she cried, lacing her fingers tightly with his, transforming his loose hold on her hand to a pleading union. "They are the tears of a woman who has done years of penance, grieving for the loss of your love." 

He pulled her to him, not caring any longer for the consequences; he only cared that her words were making him ache to hold her. 

She exploded into tears as he enfolded her in his arms. "Oh, Erik, I was so cruel - but I have changed, I have grown up, and I love you so much ..." Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed herself out of his embrace. "Please, to not torment me - I know you mean to comfort me, but it causes me too much pain." 

He wanted to laugh at her misunderstanding; his heart was lost in a swirling sea of love, and her still-naïve objections almost delighted him. "Christine - do you think I have stopped loving you for even one moment in the last ten years?" 

She stared at him, surprise stopping her tears. "Erik .. _can_ you still love me, after all my selfishness?" 

He answered her by returning his hands to her cheeks, brushing away the tears with the pads of his thumbs. "Christine," he whispered, his voice too choked for any other words. 

She flung herself back into his arms and clung to him, weeping into his shirtfront; she wept away the years of heartache and hugged him tightly, wordlessly promising to never again take his love for granted. His own tears subsided into a frenzy of tender gestures; he stroked her shoulders, pulled her close, vowed his love a thousand times in whispers pressed into the waves of her hair. And when her sobbing was ended she lifted her face to be kissed, just as a daisy lifts its petals to the sun after rain. 

He came undone at the touch of her lips, and his hands moved everywhere - her cheek, her waist, the nape of her neck. Soon his lips were following suit, and he kissed her fingertips, her forehead, the smooth sweep of skin his lips touched when he buried his face in her shoulder. 

She was laughing at his energy; but her fingers brushed the mask, and she whispered urgently in his ear, "Erik - please, let me see you." 

He pulled back, looked down into her eyes. "No, Christine; you cannot want that." 

"But I do," she insisted, running a fingertip along his lower lip. "I've spent my whole life loving your ghost - please let me spend the rest of it loving your face." 

He set his chin as if to lock in a sob, but she held him tightly with one arm as she raised the other hand gently to his face. She let the mask fall to the floor beside her sewing and cupped a soft palm on either cheek, staring straight into his eyes which brimmed with tears. "This is what I want, Erik," she swore with her voice and her eyes and her hands. "_You_ are what I want." 

He closed his eyes and let her words seep into his heart like water into desert soil; and when they touched and soothed the most wounded parts of his soul, he took her gently back into his arms. Their embrace had long ago melted into a tender kiss when Estelle suddenly returned to the room. 

They heard her small feet thud to a surprised stop just inside the door, and as they turned to stare at her, embarrassed, she drew in a sharp breath. Erik lunged for the mask, but Christine stayed him with a hand on his arm. Hurrying to Estelle, she grabbed the young lady's hands and leaned confidingly towards her. 

"Estelle," she said gravely, "I have been untruthful with you, and I am sorry for that. Erik and I have known each other for a long time, nearly since before you were born." 

"I knew you must have," she answered softly, her eyes fixed over Christine's shoulder on Erik's exposed face. "There was always some secret you were both trying to hide ..." 

"Darling," Christine shook her vaguely until the girl met her gaze. "He may not be a handsome prince, but I love him so very much. You should not be afraid of him." 

Estelle slipped out of Christine's grasp and moved cautiously towards Erik, who felt frozen to the carpet with anxiety. A small distance from him she stopped, her eyes seeming to search the ruin of his face for her kind and gentle teacher. "Erik?" she finally whispered. 

"Estelle," he answered, raising his right hand to his face. "I am sorry you have had to see this. I will continue to wear the mask for you." 

But the young lady took his wrist in her nimble fingers and drew his hand away to look deeply into his face. "No," she finally said, "I don't want you to. I'm not afraid - it's just so ... so sad and beautiful, I shall need some time to grow used to it. Is that all right?" 

Tears rose in his eyes and Christine could see that as he touched the girl's chin, his expression was brimming with joy. "Yes, child," he managed, "that is just fine." 

Estelle tripped back to Christine and, taking her hand, led her to Erik's side. The two watched in wonder as she joined their hands and then drew back to observe the tableau she had created. 

Finally, she smiled. "Oh, Mam'selle Anna," she breathed teasingly. "_Now_ I understand about the Angel of Music." 

Erik and Christine stared at each other for a moment, then burst into joyous laughter. But when Christine turned to embrace her adopted daughter, they realized she had slipped from the room and shut the door quietly behind her, leaving them to celebrate their reunion together. 


End file.
